Every counselor I’ve ever talked to has told me that I’m very humble. Every teacher I’ve ever had knows me as quiet and unassuming. Many of my peers would describe me as mysterious and out-of-the-spotlight. 

I don’t really try to be. I don’t intend to act humble, I just say what I believe. I don’t want to be quiet, but I’m deathly afraid of what other people think of me. I don’t want to be a mystery—I don’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve me. I just want to possess a voice that I don’t despise.

I think I might be a narcissist; which is quite odd considering how self-conscious I am. 

Every thought that goes through my head is about me. If I say this, what would people think? If I slipped up, how would other people react? The answer often revolves around some variation of the following: If I do or say something stupid, nobody will ever forget and I’ll be known for that for the rest of my life. I over exaggerate my own self-importance in everyone else’s story, which in turn devastates my own. 

I’ve become a cog in the machine. I like to think I’m unique, like there’s something about me that stands out from everyone else, but in reality there’s nothing. I like to believe I’m one of the good ones, whatever that means, but the truth is I’m as terrible as all the people I disdain—if not worse. There’s no such thing as an edge case. I’m just like anyone else. I conform to every beauty standard and do everything society paints as cool. I try to fit in with what everyone else likes and do everything in my power for people to notice me. I think I deserve the attention.

My work always feels like competition. I have to be the best and hate when anyone else is better than me. They’re stealing my spotlight—the spotlight I deserve. I can’t feel happy for others because of my insecurities. I get so immensely jealous; I have a voice in my head that tells me I could do it, and do it better. It doesn’t say it could have been me, but it should have been me. That even though others took a leap of faith and had courage that I would never have, their success should be mine.

With each piece of literature I consume, my own creation process elongates. I feel the need to exceed them in some way and it frustrates me when I can’t. I begin to pick apart my every word and every sentence. Why are my ideas so terrible? Why is this phrased so poorly? Why are other people so much cooler than I am? I need to be better. 

I speak in absolutes when describing my own inferiority. It’s really easy to get hung up on the little things because those are what prevent me from being the best. I kill my own self-confidence that way and as such I can’t assert my authority. I follow my opinions with an I’m not sure though, and follow requests with a you don’t have to though. I hate when people look up to me because I am a horrible leader. I bend in every way because I don’t believe in myself enough. I have so many apparent flaws, and it’s such a pathetic look. Despite this, I still believe that I am worth investing trust into. It must be due to some incessant narcissism.

I constantly compare myself. Why did they choose them instead of me? Then, I adopt the traits that I think would make me even more wanted. You can’t be everyone’s most-loved, but a piece of me dies when I realize I’m not everyone’s favorite person. I have a wicked desire to be everyone’s first choice, even when they’re not mine. It always hurts when people have someone else; I want them to depend on me. Obviously, this can’t always be the case, but I take it so personally even when I know that’s not the intention. I grow very attached to those close to me, and I need constant confirmation that it’s reciprocated. My friends are my world. I hate that I fall in love so easily. 

Attention is a drug and I savor the feeling of it coursing through my veins. I have an insatiable hunger for it. I look for it through my actions, through my writing, through everything I put onto the Internet. Every word is a cry, every sentence a silent shout into the void, every paragraph a “pick me, choose me, I’m so unique and special.” But when the police showed up at my door, did I win at my shitty little game? 

Validation is a scarce resource that defies microeconomic theory; as demand increases, one can artificially jack up the supply. When the supply increases, so does the quantity required to meet the minimum threshold, thereby driving up the demand. This is a never-ending cycle where it becomes impossible to satisfy one’s infinite wants.

Am I really any different from everyone else that seeks validation from the Internet? Just because I phrase my sentences a little more eloquently, is trauma-dumping suddenly acceptable? Just because it looks elegant, can I get away with murder? Is it normal that, when the cops get called to my house, they don’t discipline me for being a fucking disgusting, manipulative attention-seeker but instead tell me I’m a talented writer?

I am an INFP. We’re supposed to be empathic, but I have no regard for the wellbeing of other people. We’re supposed to be altruistic, but nobody else matters but me. We’re supposed to have high emotional intelligence, but when someone trusts me with their problems, my mind draws blanks. Yet, I so readily share mine, like they are somehow more important. I love my own problems, and I let it be known that I am the victim. My livelihood depends on sympathy. I’m probably a narcissist.

I’m sorry to everyone I’ve made worry these past couple of years. It’s all part of a selfish plan to feed my God complex, and you were all used as my pawns; to temporarily satisfy the part of me that wants everyone to hold on tight and never let go. Although it may not seem like it, everything I’ve done was carefully laid out. Every double-meaning, every vague or mysterious string of words that could have made a situation sound much more severe than it really was, it was all planned out. I want your reassurance, but I don’t want to ask for it, and I won’t attract it if I act normal. I won’t receive the same care if I don’t put my loved ones in a perpetual state of concern. I play dead for others to nurse me back to life. It’s a worthless defense that is healthy for nobody.

It’s to the point where my counselors have begun to ask me questions like, are you happy in life? even when that’s not even close to what the original purpose of the meeting was. It’s almost like seeking attention has become second nature to me. Like oops, I said I hate school one too many times, or oops, I accidentally implied that I gave up on all my hopes and dreams and that I have nothing to be proud of. I can’t really distinguish if I am speaking my truth or if I really just want people to tell me that it’ll be okay and correct my statement for me; that I in fact do have many things to be proud of, but I just don’t want to admit to them. It might be a bit of both.

As sleep eludes me, I spend every night in bed pondering why I feel so incapable and why it seems that everyone else is doing something right that I just can’t seem to get straight. I’ve come to many varying conclusions—most of which are disillusioning. But I refuse to believe that other people can accomplish a feat that I can’t. So instead, I continue to believe that I’m the greatest alive, and that I deserve the world.

I am a narcissist.

In fact, by reading this article you’ve already played straight into my hands. Thank you for your attention. 

Now tell me you love me.