What do I know?

The Writing Experts tell you told me to write what I know.

The Experts on Life told me that I write about myself too much.

Some days, the only thing I know is myself, and most days, that is saying a lot.

Some days I wonder if I am a narcissist.

The story of Narcissus is fascinating to me. His nymph mother, Liriope, went to the seer Terisias before her child was born, to ascertain his destiny. The prophet predicted long life for the boy, on the condition that he never came to “know himself”. Irresistibly beautiful, Narcissus grew up unaware of the reason he was relentlessly pursued by lovers, none of which he had any interest in. One of these spurned lovers cried out to the godess of revenge, Nemesis, for retribution. Nemesis complied by afflicting Narcissus with the curse of unrequited love. When at last Narcissus caught a glimpse of himself in a still pool of water, and realized what all the fuss was about, he fell madly in love with himself and, long story short, pined away for the love of his own reflection. According to most variations of the myth, Narcissus was 16 when he perished for want of love.

Is that all it takes to know ones self? A look in the mirror? And how many of us truly love what we see there? How many of us would die for it? I think most of us would list out the flaws and imperfections (see my last post), but I think there is something irresistible about staring into our own reflection and wondering if our eyes see the same thing that other eyes see. But what do I know?

It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I am the face in the mirror. I feel like a much younger, much softer version. I don’t remember when the extra lines and creases and chins crept in… I don’t always feel like I know that version of myself. But then I think about how I see the others in my life who have similar perspectives. I see the younger them, under the sprinkling of salt and pepper grey hair. I see the athlete, the performer, the dreamer. I see the fighter, once a sinewy warrior with flashing eyes, tan skin and well carved musculature. Now a rainbow of grey skin and white hair and hair and fading eyes. I can remember some people that I have never met before. I feel like I know the younger them, because I am the younger me. I think time is not a line. It’s a loop. It’s is not a one way track to the end. It’s a spiraling helix of revisits and reminders. But what do I know?

I suppose I shouldn’t be writing about myself, according the The Experts. But it’s writing about myself that helps me see and understand other people. Is that because I am a narcissist? Is that because I believe everyone thinks and feels the way I do? I have looked into the pool, and I have seen myself, but it was the reflection that surrounded me that has always captivated me. The world outside of me, the one behind and in front and all around me. But what do I know?

I think the ironic thing about narcissism is that deep down, it’s self loathing. It’s such a driving insecurity to prove your worth that it consumes you and the world around you. I think a narcissist needs to erase all of the things and people behind and in front and beside them, to ensure they are seen by reducing everyone else to something so small and insignificant. Maybe Narcissus died because he knew that he would never be known past the surface beauty of his reflection? Maybe he pined for real connection and intimacy - like most of us do. Maybe he died because he knew he could never find peace with the big, beautiful world he lived in. They say that modern day narcissists love themselves to much to let themselves die, or to take their own lives, but I can’t think of a more selfish act than to rule out the needs and feelings of everyone around you by ending your own life - it’s the only reason I haven’t done it myself. When I have considered it as a reasonable action, it is always based on all-consuming thoughts and emotions about myself. The minute I consider other people in my life, my hand is stayed. But what do I know?

My greatest fear is to be unseen, to be unknown, to be unrecognized and invisible. To be a ghost in my own life where it doesn’t matter if I am there or not, I am just occupying space and in the way. I think the fear of being unseen is universal to humans, that’s why we develop partnerships and families. Intimacy is the deep knowledge of someone else - or it should be. I think most people need that. But what do I know?