Narcissism in a Nutshell
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Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. –Virgil, The Aeneid
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I’m full of shit and none of you probably care about what I’m writing, which is, in effect, the maniacal ramblings of a 20-year old white boy who can’t sleep and is faced with the realization that he doesn’t know everything and isn’t invincible. In actuality, this is all just narcissism – Here I sit, in love with and obsessively contemplating my own self-importance, looking at my metaphorical reflection in the symbolic pool and not doing a damn thing about it, ultimately leading to my demise.
The upshot, of course, is that Narcissus at least was such a fucking pathetic creature that the gods pitied him and immortalized him with a flower. As for me, I get nothing save for this rambling drivel… nothing more than ink on paper, when all is said and done. Some testament.
But nevertheless, I write and I blather on, trying to make some kind of meaningful statement and make this my contribution to society and make my writing what all of you will remember me by. Such is the life of a self-important, self-centered, angst-ridden writer.
Mother of God, I really am Narcissus. At the very least, I’m quickly becoming him.
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So… here I am once again, lying awake in Cunningham Hall, an old brick building filled with a bunch of obnoxious freshmen and me, a sophomore/junior who works too hard and gets too little… I’m on the campus of
…Christ, my contribution to literature is rapidly turning into the same fucking cliché that I’ve always written and always tried not to write. I should have started this with “Dear Abby...” Really, is this how far I’ve fallen? Have I actually stooped this low? A cocky, 20-year-old sonofabitch like me writing what sounds like the typical pathetic letters asking for advice to Ann Landers or Penthouse Forum or Miss Cleo or … it doesn’t really matter… after all, When you boil them down, they’re all the same brand of full-of-shit crackpot trying to think they know best for you… right?
And so I begin my cliché with the same old burned-out metaphorical bullshit that I’ve always been fond of in my own writing, but which I’ve always hated when I read it the next morning: “It seems like for the past week and a half or so, I try to go to bed, but I can't sleep. I lay awake, while my mind wanders wonders wanders, and my thoughts roam and ramble from one dark corner to the next, exploring the nooks and niches, finding nothing except my own memories, faded and jaded, and ghosts of the past hopelessly entangled in the silky webs of long-dead spiders.”
Wow… that was deep and symbolic and well written and meaningful and look at my talent…
Right now, it’s late and I want nothing more than to just go to sleep and forget about everything, at least until the alarm goes off the next morning in its same old static beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep until I grudgingly roll out of bed and slap the snooze button and I start the same old routine same old routine same old routine over again because yesterday is today and today is tomorrow and tomorrow is yesterday and it’s all the same – every day just like the others over and over again and I wish tomorrow would be different for once and I wish I had some milk and cookies or I wish I smoked so I would have something to do to help me relax and maybe I should go for a drive and … ah fuck it. My mind is running a marathon. My nerves are buzzing like they’re wired to a car battery. Christ, I need to do something… at least to make me feel like I have a purpose.
…So I start writing. “It seems like for the past week and a half or so, blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah.” Seriously …Nobody cares… This is all just my narcissistic delusion of grandeur, that I’m feeling something that nobody has ever felt before (or maybe everyone’s felt it and couldn’t explain it) and maybe if I can get it all out and articulate it on paper I’ll make some grand kind of statement about life and people will think that I’ve figured it all out and they’ll respect me more for it in the morning, right? Right? Isn’t that how it works? That’s why we write, isn’t it?
Sure it is, Andrew. Sure it is. You just go on and write, darling, and you’ll be self-righteous and philosophical and full of wisdom and you’ll let everyone know it, I’m sure. Fuck you, you self-serving, egotistical, cocky bastard.
…And so I keep writing…
I am laying awake in Cunningham Hall at
My roommate is fast asleep, long since passed out. I should be so lucky. I watch the wedge of fluorescent light that bleeds in from the hallway through the crack underneath the door. I wonder who is still awake. At
My mind is scattering itself all over the place like ducks and I’m not making anysense at all anymore to anyone not even to myself and you probably don’t understand me either. I know I forgot to put a space between those two words back there but fuck off, I like it and I think it looks innovative and I’m not going back and changing it.
I’m the only person still awake…That’s a strange thought to consider, isn’t it? That everyone but you is right now dreaming about happiness or death or fucking or falling or the girl they’ve been trying to get in bed for the past two weeks, but you’re sitting here, steeped in your own self-pity and apathy and trying to figure out where it all went wrong and feeling like there’s no answer to any of your questions and wishing you could just fucking get it right for once. Just once, you wish you could do something right, for Christ’s sake.
Stop it. Get over it. For the last time, go to sleep, you stupid, sentimental bastard.
Here I am, in college, a privilege that most people only dream of but I take for granted. I’m an asshole. What about the people who dreamed of going and getting an “education” but couldn’t? What about the people working late nights on the graveyard shift, as I have so many times? What are they doing? Are they mopping floors, cleaning up other peoples’ shit? Are they waiting tables at all-night diners and serving strong coffee to big-rig drivers at truck stops? Are they watching TV and reading? Are they sleeping?
Why the fuck do I even care? Maybe it’s that I’ve worked in places with people like this, and I guess maybe, in some ways, I can sympathize with them. But look, I’m in fucking college, something that neither of my parents got to do, a point that is, for the most part, irrelevant, but it makes me feel like my presence is here is justified. I guess that maybe I’m just still too connected to my roots to fully forget about everyone else, which is another strange feeling, isn’t it?
How, in all of your infinite wisdom, do you reconcile the fact that there are people worse off than you, worrying about bills, mortgages, feeding the kids, and staying employed, while you’re here laying awake in the dorm room of your expensive private college, bitching and moaning and beating the shit out of yourself because your high-school sweetheart finally decided to call it quits? I’m goddamn pathetic, and I apologize for that. I guess that maybe I’m just self-centered. Actually, I know I’m self-centered... It was one of her motives for her decision to finally let me go. Hundreds of thousands of relationships end every day for hundreds of thousands of reasons, and I’m sure that hundreds of thousands of terminated relationships are more devastating than mine. I’m just an egotistical asshole, I guess, and I can’t escape the feeling that people have a duty to fucking care about me. They do, don’t they?
…..Maybe not.
Ah, I’ve allowed myself to ramble. So, anyways, what about those other people who are still awake?
What about the doctors on call who are awoken from their sleep at 3:30 A.M. because some 17-year old Jane Doe coming home from a friend’s house was hit by a drunk driver and needs immediate medical attention? What are their lives like? What do they think about as they rush to get dressed and then speed all the way to the hospital to do what they can to save this girl’s life? What do they do afterwards? Does the girl survive? Does she make it? Is this the ending to her story?
What about the pregnant woman somewhere who goes into labor at
What about people who may just be getting up, getting ready to go to work in jobs they hate but are endlessly trapped in? What about people who love their jobs? What makes the difference? Is it money? If that’s true, then money equals happiness… is that the kind of world we live in? Is that the kind of world I want to live in? Jesus, I don’t know…. Is it success? What is success? Is success gaining the respect of your neighbors, having a perfect wife and perfect kids and little pink houses for you and me? Maybe success is just being able to do what you want to do. If that’s the case, why can’t I be successful? Why can’t I do what I want to do? …I know why… it’s much easier to whine about everything that’s wrong than it is to get off my ass and do something about it.
…What about the people in other parts of the world, other parts of the country, other parts of the state, other parts of town? What are the intricacies of their lives, how do they construct meaning out of their existence? In what do they believe? What do they live for? What are other people dying for?
What about me?
………..I do not know.
What I do know is that I can’t fucking sleep, and it’s frustrating me and pissing me off.
Tonight, as I lay awake in the dark, I confront myself, my soul, my spirit, my demons. All of them come upon me like wolves creeping in for the kill. Every night seems to be the same. Every night, I lay awake and think about my past, present, and future: where I was, where I am, and where I am going. Every night, I end up feeling the same – clueless, confused, disappointed, and anxious for something to happen, for anything to happen. For something to be meaningful, for something to be unexpected, for something to be spontaneous and crazy and unplanned and invigorating and… Jesus…. I just want to do something.
You know… I’m just fucking confused, and I don’t know how I should handle myself.
Tonight, as I toss and turn like an experienced insomniac, I think about human relationships – their beginnings as well as their ends. I think about each and every relationship that I’ve been in. For some reason, I think about middle school. I think about my first relationships. Things used to be so much easier then.
"Amanda doesn't want to go out with you anymore," Courtney told me on a warm day in late October.
"Okay," I said, as I ran away, feigning hurt and seeking pity.
Three weeks go by.
"Courtney doesn't want to go out with you anymore," Amanda told me on chilly day in November.
"Okay," I said as I ran away, feigning hurt and seeking pity.
Every breakup was always the same. Simple. Beautiful. Heartbreaking in that puppy-love kind of way that only a 14-year-old can understand and that we all lose once we experience true heartbreak for the first time. We can look back now and say that we were stupid and childish and immature, but that’s because we don’t understand anymore. We laugh it off and pretend it’s meaningless now, but it wasn’t, it never will be, and there’s no way we’ll ever be able to understand it……..
…I’ve started rambling again…
At any rate, those times were happy and simple, and maybe that’s my point. I have my memories of my adolescence, and at times like this, I pull out the happier ones and parade them around in lock-step lines to cheer myself up and remind me of how things used to be, how I used to feel, and how I want to feel again. Maybe we all do this… maybe each of us is prone to thinking of happier times when we mourn…
Oh, Jesus, don’t let me fall into this. It’s a trap! You’re supposed to think about the past and fall into a pit of introspection and reflection and self-pity and warm, fuzzy memories. Goddammit, if you do this you’re going to look at how you felt as a painful reminder of how good things were instead of as a guide to how to feel again…
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O, teenage summertime! In those days, you celebrated your one week anniversary by walking to get an ice cream cone and maybe, if you were lucky, you stole a kiss in the hedges or the shed or in the dark when nobody else was watching. If you lasted longer than two weeks, things were serious. You weren't in it for love; you weren't in it for emotional fulfillment or sexual gratification. You were in it because life was easy, life was fun, and you didn't have anything else to do. You were in it because you were newly pubescent; you were feeling new feelings and trying new things and you were immortal and nothing could stop you from life.
You were in it because you were drawn to one another in a way that you had never felt before. You knew that something inherently special was happening, but you couldn’t exactly explain it. You still can’t explain it. In many ways, you don’t want to explain it. To explain things like this is to oversimplify them. To oversimplify them is to reduce them to something that doesn’t even come close to doing justice to the absolute beauty of the original situation, and you wouldn’t dare vandalize your memories like that.
You were in it for the long summer days when you rode your bikes around the neighborhood in the hot sun, ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches on the back porch while they melted and made your fingers and hands sticky; for the nights that you sat at the side of the pool at dusk, exhausted from swimming for the entire day and listening to the radio blast the songs of summer… singing along, enjoying life, enjoying each other, enjoying being young, foolish, and ignorant. Most importantly, you enjoyed being, for the first time in your long 13 years of life, genuinely and unconditionally happy.
You were in it because you wanted to be. You were in it because you had to be. You didn’t realize it then, and you don’t fully grasp it now, but those days built you. It is true to say that those days are your past, but you often fail to realize that those days are also your present and your future, and to convince yourself otherwise is to do yourself a great injustice.
Certain bands and songs characterized that summer, and even as you hear them today, your mind immediately snaps back to those times and you are, for a moment, as genuinely happy-go-lucky as you once were. Sixpence None the Richer, Third Eye Blind, Eagle Eye Cherry, Sugar Ray, Barenaked Ladies… the list goes on and on. Some of the bands that you loved were one hit wonders, but you still dust off your old CD’s sometimes and give them a listen. Somehow, you always know which song you need to hear and you sing along, loudly and off-key, just like always.
During that summer, every sensory perception became seemingly more vivid. The smell of freshly cut grass will forever remind you of that summer, because you lived outside, and somewhere a lawnmower was always running. The smell of grass and gasoline was ever-present around you. You ran through backyards with wet, bare, feet and the grass clumped around your legs and stuck between your toes. The feeling of your bare, calloused feet walking on the smooth painted yellow lines on the hot asphalt road, because you had figured out that the lines were much cooler than the rest of the road. The feeling of your feet squishing into the black tar patches that were put into the cracks and potholes.
The haze of heat mixed with the unmistakable smell of gasoline. The musty smell of the old house that you broke into until it was sold and new owners moved in. You went in through a window that wasn’t locked, and you pretended. You lived out your entire adult lives together. You pretended that it was haunted and you could see ghosts. Sometimes, you still think you did.
You were in it for the silly games you played once it got dark. Hide and seek. Capture the flag. Just running around and chasing each other until you fall to the ground, grass staining your bare knees, dirt smudging your face, and laughing until it hurts.
You were in it to sleep outside on the grass under the stars so you could sneak off to the girl's house once it got dark and everyone was asleep so you could explore each other until dawn when her father wakes up for work and you have to sneak away through the woods so he doesn’t catch you.
You were in it to leave your shoes and socks in the shade on the cold, damp grass while you waded through the streams in the woods, feeling your feet slip and slide over the slimy algae-covered rocks. You were in it to hide under bridges and talk, to sit by the lake behind the house, to play grown-up games, to dream about futures growing old together, to think that nothing would ever change and you would be this happy forever.
You were in it because you were young, naïve, and stupid. You were in it because it felt right, because you were happy, because it made sense, and because you didn’t want anything else. You couldn’t imagine anything better, because you didn’t want to. You didn’t need to. You wouldn’t dare to.
You were in it because you were irresponsible. You were irresponsible because you had no real responsibilities. No kids, no bills, no mortgages. Carefree.
You were in it, because that was your life. That was everything.
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…Those are my memories, and tonight, I fall back on them, against my better judgment. But why? Maybe it’s that I never really grew up. Maybe I’m like Peter Pan and these memories are my Neverland, where every possibility is a reality and everything carries the weight and burden of being infinite.
Maybe this is human nature. Jesus, does everyone do this? Oh, Christ, now I’ve done it. I always pledged to never fall for the same traps that everyone else finds themselves ensnared in, because I always thought I was better than that, smarter than that… that’s the egotistical asshole in me talking again. Oh shit, maybe I’m human after all…
So I guess the conclusion I’m coming to is that all of us do this. We all have these memories that we’ve willfully and almost delusionally forced to become, for us, the epitome of happiness. We’ve filtered out the impurities and cleansed them of anything that is distinctly not joyous, so that we have a point of reference for the rest of our lives…
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In short, those memories are what you think of when times get bad.
Those are the days that you remember more than anything. Those are the days you think of after you break off relationships, after you have a rough week, after you’re fired from your job. Those are the places you go back to when you have nowhere else to turn. Those are the days that you think of when you come home early to find your wife in bed with another man. Those memories of being young and free-spirited are what you think of in your prison cell after the bars click home, the lights go out, and everything seems bleaker than ever.
Those are the days you think of when you're standing at the top of the bridge while police shout at you from the ground and helicopters circle around you while you’re watching the dark water churn below, looking for the courage to step off and the reasons not to. Those are the times that you think of as you're leaning out of your 18th story window, and those are the memories that frantically fly through your head while the street below rushes to meet you.
Those are the days, those are the memories, that help you through the hard times. The people, whom you haven't seen for years, are nothing more than the ghosts that get caught in the spider webs, fighting, against their better judgment, to escape. What are they doing today? You don’t know, and in a lot of ways, you don’t want to. You hate to acknowledge it, but it’s nice to be ignorant of reality, because that way you can keep your utopian, idealistic views of the people in your memories and you don’t have to face the fact that they, like you, have grown and changed.
They don’t just come during the bad times though. Those are also the days that you think of during your best times. Those are the days you remember right before you propose to the woman who will be your wife. Those are the places to which your mind wanders during your wedding. Those are the memories you think of while you're standing on the beach at sunset, looking out over the endless ocean while the waves roll over your feet and splash up around your ankles and the sun is grand but fading and you could live here forever and never want a single thing but this…
Those were the days when things were simple.
They are not simple anymore.
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Now, the hurt is real. I no longer want pity from anyone. I just want to make the best I can with the reality of the situation, and to have everyone understand my reasons, my actions, and my intentions. I guess that’s the best I can hope for.
Tonight, I think about the fresh start, whenever that may come. I think about the opportunities ahead. I think about my present. I think about my gifts and my blessings. I understand.
Late at night, life is clear. Maybe it's because this is the only time of day when I can clear my mind enough to truly think. Maybe it's because I'm caught in the state between asleep and awake, and every dark corner of my mind is illuminated.
I can finally see that this is how life is. Life is a cycle of beginnings and endings, some at random, others staged, others accidental. Nothing happens because it is simply "meant to be." People enter and leave the dramatic plot of your life like actors on a stage doing what the script tells them. Relationships are broken at the end of the first scene, and new ones are forged in the second. Who knows what the third will bring?
At any rate, you must see the drama through. You start, you finish, you try, and you survive. You can't sleep, so you write, so you smoke, so you listen to the incessant tick-ticking of your watch; you lay awake, tossing and turning, watching the wedge of light under the door waiting for a bomb to drop or a meteor to hit or an earthquake to split your room in two and leave you stretched across the chasm, fighting for handholds. You want a life or death situation so you can know that you're alive, so that you can feel the blood coursing and pulsing and rushing through your veins and so you can move forward knowing that your time is limited and that you should do something, anything while you can.
“Carpe diem,” they say. Sometimes, that’s easier said than done.
You want to play chicken with a train. You want to see those tons of steel and machinery plowing forward towards you, knowing that it’s not going to stop and wait for you to move and that it can end you if it, and you, wants to. You want the reassurance that you have something to live for, and you want the reassurance that you’ll be able to sidestep it at the last second and live a fuller, more meaningful life afterwards.
You want to be able to see your own ending, if only for a second. Your mind wanders. You think, you reflect, and you learn. In a lot of ways, you need this pain to force you into this kind of situation where you are forced to make a decision about who you really are and where you go from here and how you get on. But then again, that’s life. Some days you understand why things are the way they are, and some days you don't. You look, you seek, you find, you love, you hate, you desire, you lust, you sin, you anger.
In short, you live.
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