Living in the Age of Narcissism

What do you call a prosperous society where it is perfect, even praiseworthy, for a highly successful winner to relieve himself in a gold toilet bowl costing hundreds of thousands of dollars while, miles away, newborn babies, born to losers, die at “third world” rates because of poverty? Not a trick question. Say it with me, USA! USA!!!

If an individual prioritizes his own luxury and limitless appetite for acquisition over the lives of people he deems worth far less than him, you’d call that asshole a narcissist. It would be the most polite thing you could call him, actually. What do you call a society that prioritizes the values of a handful of these supremely entitled, socially venerated, insatiably covetous assholes over everything else? Exceptional. Unless we are living in the Age of Narcissism. A pretty good case can be made for calling the age we live in the Age of Narcissism.

It wearies me to make that case at the moment, a case so obvious and in-your-face that it hardly needs to be made. I will get at it in the future, on another day like this, when all I can see, and smell, are the evils done by these toxically virtuous pieces of shit. Some days, literally everything you see, hear and smell confirms this horrific fact: fucking narcissists rule, and they always have.

Back to hell, devils!

Clear, objective analysis and patient exposition are very important to healing from wounds that were inflicted by others. Intellectually, you can come to understand the harm done to you, the mechanism, the hows, the whys and all that other stuff. The much harder part is the emotions you are left holding, like a bag of rotting flesh.

So to those pathetic, determined devils who have done such damage to my life, out of their own damage and their undigested, unslakable rage toward parents alive and dead, I say back to hell with you, you fucking devils.

Context is crucial

Without context, the most idiotic, lying claim can fly, since there is nothing to really measure it against. Every single legal proceeding against the insane former president is a hoax, a witch hunt, a political hit job, yea, illegal partisan election interference, motivated by irrational hatred of the greatest man ever to be president of the smoldering carnage of this once great nation.

With context, well, that kind of broad, moronic claim can be easily seen as the idiotic manipulation it is.

I love the context for the superseding indictment in the documents case that former FBI agent Pete Strozk provided in about a minute. The day after a draft subpoena is sent to Trumpie’s attorney the obstructive frenzy begins: attempts to hide requested documents, destroy servers, delete surveillance video of lackeys hiding documents, deceiving his own lawyers, causing one to sign a false statement about retained documents. All starting right before (and after) the subpoena for the surveillance video was served on the Orange Polyp.

How’s that for context (and consciousness of guilt), Trumpie? Well, done, Pete.

A rage to be right

There are some people, you’ll discover, if you ever have a conflict with them, who are incapable of ever being wrong. These can be close and loving friends, it turns out, and everything will be fine as long as you are always conciliatory and never make a fuss about the occasional mistreatment you may experience. Their tragic, aggravating flaw is that they cannot compromise because such weakness is intolerable to them.

When real conflict arises, and you don’t pretend not to be irritated, you will suddenly see that you are up against a monster, because to them the stakes are not the human ones of sometimes feeling bad about being wrong, but utter humiliation for them. They simply cannot tolerate being wrong and they will kill you, if necessary, to prove that they are the most loving and perfect people ever created.

It’s tempting to call these kind of people psychos but I prefer to think of them as extremely damaged. The problem comes when these damaged people become destructive, as they always do when they feel threatened. They are hypervigilant about threats.

They act with no regard for the brutal harm they inflict because they are always justified in their rage. Their only interest is in being above reproach, being right, being superior. They cannot control their fury to “win” and will do whatever it takes to prove themselves perfect and beyond reproach. They are some of the most dangerous motherfuckers in the world. They tend to write, and rewrite, history.

My two closest friends, for literally decades, turned out to be people who cannot be wrong, people who, if they are wrong, will prove themselves right by any means necessary. After a nightmarishly tense long weekend in a rented vacation house they barely made eye contact as we said goodbye. The anger I had witnessed between them in that house required the end of our relationship and my removal from our circle of friends. They made it very clear to me that unless I admitted that I was the cause of all anger and bad feeling in that house, we were not going to be friends.

Somebody else would have told them to go fuck themselves, and would not have been wrong to do so, but, out of love for them, and valuing our long friendship, I spent over a year trying to make peace with them. It was possibly the most difficult year of my life. I did learn a few important, painful things. One is that you can’t make peace with people who can never be wrong.

Long periods of angry silence did not cure me of the need to talk about the hurtful events of that vacation from hell. Threats to walk away from our friendship, for the unforgivable things I had done (unspecified) did not deter me. I sent letters they claimed never to have received. They got angry whenever I tried to talk about healing our friendship. They began lying.

After a joyous wedding we attended with a group of longtime friends I got a text saying we could only talk to each other in front of a mediator. When I suggested a meeting to agree on facts to present to the mediator they agreed. Covid was still raging so we sat outside to talk, as the temperature dropped. It was literally cold as hell as they squared off with me. They both were angry during the conversation, resisting everything I said. There was no fact they’d agree to, facts would be left up to the mediator.

This type sees people like mediators as tools to prove themselves right. Why not let the professional decide who is right and who is wrong, that’s what mediators do — according to people who cannot be wrong.

If two parties go to a mediator with no agreement about the nature of the conflict, or what their respective interests and positions are, the mediator cannot possibly help mediate any kind of compromise. That’s not the point for people who can never be wrong.

These two would present reasonable, successful, normal faces to the mediator, complain that I, an unreasonable, unsuccessful, abnormal and tormented person simply refused to accept responsibility for being an asshole, and that they greatly loved me in spite of that. The mediator might be convinced. Then, in their mind, I’d finally have to shut the fuck up. Set and match.

When it became clear they would fight every attempt to heal, except for their fail safe mediator ploy, I told them it was useless to go to a mediator. A month of silence followed.

During that month they got busy, working on all of our mutual friends. The story all of our mutual friends heard was that Eliot sadistically tortured them for over a year trying to bend them to his will. Not only that, his rage was unappeasable. He refused their desperate last ditch attempt to heal with a professional mediator. They had apologized to him over and over and over but it was never enough. So Eliot was also unforgiving, inhumanly so. Eliot was so enraged at them, because of his childish childhood pain, that he simply could not recognize how much they loved him, how hard they were trying to convince him of their love. Eliot had made it literally impossible for them to live. Eliot had killed them, Eliot was a murderer and a lawyer specializing in denial, distorting the plain facts to make other people look like liars. Eliot had laughed as he slashed them to death, laughed and joked as he was slaughtering them. You think Eliot is an easygoing, philosophical guy with a quick wit, but that’s his mask. Eliot is a cruel, vicious, venomous monster. Once you are determined to “win” at all costs, trifles like truth and lies be damned.

I’d like to say that these long-time mutual friends all called me and asked me what the hell was going on. None did.

In fact, they all told me that I had nothing to say, that they were not prepared to listen to my longwinded protests about what I claimed actually happened. They spoke in one voice: unless I was ready to do the hard work to heal from my irrational childhood pain, and honestly forgive people who loved me dearly, I was as good as dead to the rest of them.

And so it was, and so I am.

One could say I’m better off, not having these brittle friendships in my life anymore. I’m not so sure. We shared a lot of love and many laughs for 50 years, and none of us is perfect (outside of the two assholes who smeared my good name).

But if you can’t be wrong, and you’ve lived your life acquiring the power and the manipulative skills to do so, you will kill anybody who threatens the image of you as a perfect being. Such is the treacherous world we make our way through on our journey toward death.

Note to a depressed young man (draft one)

One hallmark of a depressive episode is how impossible it is to understand that depression always passes. This is impossible to imagine when you are depressed. Depression removes all hope, closes off all creativity, every possibility for overcoming it. Depression is rage turned inward, against the self.

I speak from experience. I was in the dark pit of what felt like a major and endless depression around the time I turned thirty. I could see no possibility for moving forward. I spent months in therapy, walking, avoiding people and falling asleep on a friend’s couch when I went to visit him after therapy.

Depression removes all options for action, preemptively torepedoing any thought that might lead you away from self-torment.

Though it feels impossible, reach out to people who can listen to you and help. Your support group is very concerned but not often up to the task of offering you perspective or relief from the burden of other people’s harsh judgments that have led you to the dark abyss you find yourself at the bottom of. You lose all sense of your own value, and decency, all sensitivity turned against yourself for disappointing those who love you.

Though it feels impossible, and I understand why, reach out to people who have made you feel loved. They are the only ones who can help you up and out.

And know this. While it sounds impossible, this depressive episode will pass, depression always does. You could look it up.

Belief rules the world

As Yuval Noah Harari sets out in his epic Sapiens, a book rightfully loved by then President Barack Obama (my cousin, who read it in the original Hebrew, compared it to an excellent graduate course), human beings are unique among all the animals with our talent for organizing vast armies that march faithfully under banners of abstract, arbitrary beliefs. It is the human ability to adopt unshakable belief in powerful abstractions that has allowed all human triumph and thousands of years of human history written in the blood of every other creature, as well as the blood of Mother Earth herself.

No reason to get excited, faith is the cure for all pain. It is true belief that gives meaning to a terrifying and otherwise meaningless existence. Belief that love is returned, and earned, believe in community, in an all-powerful, all-merciful creator who bestows all gifts on each of us. The faith to love purely, intertwined with the faith to kill, righteously. You can look at human history, and the history of ideas, and see much nobility and many great ideas. But you will also see much mass madness and many horrific ideas embraced by entire societies.

What is it with these puny earthling motherfuckers, made in the image of gods who also don’t hesitate to allow unimaginable suffering to countless innocent children, doomed to their short, desperate lives? You’d have to ask your mullah, priest, minister, preacher, teacher, guru, Pope or rabbi, I suppose.