Not everyone in my family likes to admit it.
It feels a bit like a ghost, sometimes. Something untouchable.
But those of us who have experienced it agree: my grandpa is a narcissist.
The DSM says that the criteria for diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is if a person exhibits at least five of the following:
- Grandiose sense of self-importance
- Preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
- Belief in one’s superiority and expectation to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements
- Need for excessive admiration
- Sense of entitlement
- Interpersonal exploitation
- Lack of empathy
- Envy of others or belief that others are envious of them
- Arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes
And I don’t mean it as an insult or disrespectful statement.
But it’s true. It shines forth in his tone, in how he talks, even in how he’s written his memoir.
It explains why despite aging in nearly ideal conditions – surrounded by loving family, receiving the best possible medical care, living in his own home – he’s still living his worst nightmare.
He tells me he never imagined getting old. Being bedridden.
His bedroom, once a place of comfort, is now his jail cell, of sorts.
HIs caregiver, a warden.
He misses the power and control he used to wield as a lawyer and business owner. How he commanded a room. Now, I can only imagine, being faced with his own vulnerability and physical weakness is a personal daily torment. A hellscape on earth.
And I wonder what could make him better. Happier.
But he’s stuck in a vicious cycle.
He doesn’t sleep.
He gets tired.
He sleeps during the day, failing to exercise – one of the few things that brings a smile to his face.
He sleeps enough during the day to prevent himself from falling asleep at night.
He refuses help.
When he misses sleep consecutively, he hallucinates.
Gets even further agitated.
Trusts no one.
And we all spiral and panic the moment it happens, but nothing can be done.
And now, I can’t tell whether we panic more or less because we know it will inevitably happen again.
It’s a pattern.
He doesn’t seem to want to fix it.
His patterns of self-sabotage are difficult to bear witness to as someone who wants nothing more than to help.
He wants to do what he wants, without regard for his own safety or the safety of others. He has goals he desperately wants to reach with his physical therapy, but he’s unwilling to do what is necessary to maintain his strength, let alone improve it.
Some days, it makes me cry.
The other day, I lost my patience. I decided to give him space.
Now he’s having hallucinations.
Back then, he told me it was “his body, his choice” regarding if he wanted to do his physical therapy exercises/homework.
I definitely took that statement much too seriously and personally given his personality, but I won’t deny that it stung.
To be here, I gave up my life in the States. My job. And, I know, more than anyone else in my family, what it’s like to have your body violated.
I would never do that to him.
He doesn’t know that though.
Anyways.
Narcisissm.
Self-sabotage.
Reflecting on this situation with my grandpa has left me with more grief and compassion for what it was like for those close to me while I was at the peak of my depression and suicidal thoughts.
They consumed me.
I am ashamed of how I acted at that point in time.
Yet, I refuse to be the one who makes him feel like he’s only worthy of being loved when he’s at his best.
He is flawed. He self-sabotages. He is a narcissist.
But we are all imperfect.
He deserves to know, even in these moments of vulnerability, of weakness, of difficulty, of pain – that he, too, is accepted for who he is.
That he is loved.
It is never easy to be around a person you love when they are in a cycle of self-sabotage. When they take you for granted. When they are neither nice nor kind.
But it is in those moments that the person you love is often in the worst place, mentally and emotionally.
As a third party to their suffering, you have an opportunity to love them exactly as they are.
To comfort them.
I think sometimes having a push, a wake up call, is good and needed in those scenarios. Getting called out on your bullsh*t is healthy and keeps us humble. I think we all need it, at least every once in a while.
But gentleness, tenderness, comfort – that is something that is often the hardest to give in these moments. And yet, it is the most profoundly loving thing you can do for a person who may not fully be experiencing the same reality they would under other conditions.
It’s not helpful to tell someone they’re a burden or that they’re hard to love in these moments.
Because I truly believe we are all capable and made for love.
Even on our worst days.
The question is, are you capable of loving someone at their lowest?
Do you understand what that means?
Will you still be there for the worst version of the person you love?
*To be clear, I am not telling anyone to tolerate real abuse. However, elder abuse happens at alarming rates due to their physical vulnerability and, in some cases, due to mental/memory challenges as well.*
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