Unlike overt narcissists (overts), coverts appear shy and inhibited, sometimes depressed, and always overly concerned with the judgment of others. They lack the drive for realization typical of classic narcissism and therefore lead gray lives while attributing their failure to others, to "life", secretly harboring feelings of anger and deep envy.
They cultivate unconfessable fantasies of glory, superiority and success, but, unlike the "overts", the hidden narcissists manifest experiences of inferiority that make them susceptible to the slightest criticism.
Often they undertake artistic paths or studies considered socially prestigious without results, given the superficiality of their commitment. However, they do not give up the label of "writer", "musician" or future "lawyer" even when, with all evidence, they will never succeed in their intent.
The appearance of "damned", of injured chicks, of "victims of life" can deceive those who fall in love with covert narcissists and plunge them into the gears of emotional dependence that revolve around the need to help the frustrated partner. The coverts react to the love and dedication of the other with reluctance to change and respond through the incessant trauma of silence, emotional inhibition and depressive withdrawal, up to the unpredictable abandonment inflicted on the partner as an unconscious "retaliation" of the own failures.
Akthar (1989) emphasizes that covert narcissists are "unable to stay in love" and experience the difference in interests and values of which the other is a healthy bearer with extreme difficulty and discomfort. The inability to tolerate subjectivities other than their own is one of the reasons why coverts are unable to stay in a relationship for long: they fall out of love overnight and for this reason they are ultimately as destructive and pathologizing as overts.
In fact, together with their own narcissism, these subjects hide aggression, contempt, personal failure and the impossibility of loving in a system of progressive relational sabotage completely incomprehensible for the partner, who remains entangled in the sense of guilt and inadequacy without sensing the serious abuse and neglect to which it is subjected.
The drama of emotional dependence with a hidden narcissist is accentuated by the almost total unawareness with which the covert experiences the relationship and their feelings, an unawareness that prevents the victim from becoming aware of what is happening and of those in front of him.
You call and he doesn't answer. He does not call back, or call back when he wants. You send text messages that seem to get lost in the maze of Machiavellian unpredictability, then, after hours or days, insipid and telegraphic replies arrive.
Show callousness, coldness, and sincere disappointment at the slightest request to commit to the relationship. It is capable of overwhelming "leaps", but they last that half hour that you "make love" or so. Then again cryptic, fickle and confusing communications mix with increasingly dry silences.
And if you are bold enough to move on, if instead of urgently and definitively interrupting the relationship, you continue, everything else comes: the devaluation, the aggression, the constant feeling of precariousness and danger, the pathological jealousy, the desperation of the chase and of derision.
These are the typical phenomena of the relationship with a perverse narcissist, a man who, often beyond his own awareness, acts in a destructive way and pushes his partner into the spiral of emotional dependence.
Initially, therefore, the narcissist sells himself very well to the empath, pretending to be a victim, asking for help and emotional support, or showing himself admirable and valiant. The empath may fall in love or simply feel affection and compassion for the character played by the narcissus, and then will put his energies into what seems to him a just cause, becoming the primary source of narcissistic nourishment, even after the narcissist has stopped acting. the wonderful initial character.
When the empath becomes a victim of the narcissus, he is reduced to the rank of co-dependent.
The empath tends to be naive and makes an incredible effort to understand the fact that there are people without scruples, ethics, good feelings and morals. So he will try in every way to keep the slices of salami over his eyes and not to notice the discrepancies between the fabulous character played by the narcissus and the real, horrible being that transpires here and there as the relationship with the narcissus proceeds.
The empath tries desperately to continue to believe in the existence of that wonderful person, otherwise all his beliefs will prove wrong and the world will collapse on him.
Meanwhile, the narcissus blames his own misdeeds on the empath, who according to him does not provide him with enough love and adoration and who knows what else: otherwise, he argues, the narcissus would be serene and would continue to be the wonderful person of the early days.
The empath believes in it and takes all the blame for the problems of the narcissus and the relationship. Then he is convinced that to heal the situation, he or she must give, give more and more, until he is totally drained.
At this point, the empath generally ends up on the verge of suicide or self-destructive behaviors, and the narcissus gets rid of it as soon as it finds a new, fresh and "juicy" victim.
Moral: if you are an empath, stay away from daffodils. All the more so if you have a history of codependency or narcissistic parents. Read, get informed, learn how to recognize them and how to manage them, learn to take care of yourself and above all to dedicate your empathy to worthy causes.
Not everything and everyone must be helped; channel your gifts of sensitivity and compassion into a suitable job or volunteer, rather. And practice discerning and saying no.
I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA.
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.
It happened a month ago. I was sitting in the car, as my father was driving around, he was ready to buy something; the car was a patched church from a near to the park and to pass the time I observed the people, parrot and they could not see me, because the windows yes, but I, if they shouted, could also hear them. There were many groups and small groups scattered around the park, they laughed, joked. I noticed a girl sitting completely alone on her bench, it was the bench closest to my car so she could see well her big sad eyes that each both guarded in all over the park and, by chance and met others immediately turned to look down. Her dark hair was tied up in a disorderly fashion, in a notebook on her legs and a pen in her left hand, she was left-handed. He stared at the notebook with the tip of the pen between his teeth and, each wrote, as unexpectedly encourages inspiration. Every now and then he would stop and get in his way quickly. I saw a tall handsome boy approaching the bench, he asked for something pointing to the bench, read nodded and then he sat down. I lowered the window a little, just not to be seen and heard, where absolutely to see how it ends. The girl had closed the notebook leaving the pen inside, the boy raised his hand in the air and started shouting according to someone to approach. And here comes a beautiful girl, the classic barbie who stands next to him. -Sorry, we’re leaving soon, we have to wait for some friends but we’re giving a lot of standing time and there is no free bench, it bothers you say it .- She shook her head with a forced smile and then turned away from the Other part, not from saying no. He made a strange face, put his hand on his forehead and shook his head and I understood. He probably thought -How could I think that it was come here for me, what a fool! in a romantic puzzle. Then he lowered his head, I knew what he was feeling, I knew it very well. The people who passed in front of that bench turned around for a moment to look at it, pointed at it to the rest of the group and then a general laugh was heard. She pretended not to hear, not to notice, but her knuckles had turned white from how much she held the pen. Another boy approached her and without asking anything he sat down, she didn’t even look at him. He did not call anyone, he stood there and looked in front of him, clapped his hands on his legs and his right leg moved nervously. He asked the girl for the time and she coldly answered him, without even looking into his eyes. Then he continued to write. After a few seconds of silence he asked her -What do you write? – Her pen fell on the ground, she didn’t pick it up and then said: -Nothing that could interest you- -That I should judge- -The truth is that I have never read to anyone what I write- – Are you a writer? – -I would like to, but it’s not my gift, let’s say .- -How do you know if no one has ever read what you write? – -I need to judge what I write. – No it is not true. Do you think you are beautiful? – -I? Of course not .- -Here, you see? For me you are instead, and in my opinion it is the same thing with what you write- -I really have to go now- said the girl getting up. The boy stood there saying nothing, watching her as she walked away. After a while he got up too, and with his hands in his pockets went to the opposite side. I was shocked, I didn’t understand why she left, she wasn’t used to being complimented and she probably couldn’t handle the situation. I would have liked to get out of the car and stop her, tell her there was nothing to fear, to try to be happy, but how could I if, in the end, I am like her? And so a month went by, I didn’t think about it anymore. Yesterday I was walking around the town with a friend of mine, I was talking to her quietly when at a certain point I saw her, the girl from the park, she had loose hair and a beautiful smile and, you know the nice thing? He was holding hands with that boy, they walked past me and I looked at them for a while. Who knows what had happened, from that afternoon to that moment, what story there was, I wanted so much to know it, but, for the moment, I’m content to imagine it. I just hope they will be happy.
hello friends, I don’t know how many of you love reading books. I don’t know you well yet. But if there are curious readers among you then I can post my profile on Wattpad, where every now and then I see someone writing something special. You are all welcome and if you also have an account on Wattpad let me know and I will come and read something of yours.
We ebook writers are not considered. Not only are ebooks still a small slice of the publishing market but they are also marginalized when it comes to large publishing. We are not valued, we are not interviewed, we are not really considered, despite our valid presence in the field of female fiction. It is absurd that in 2020 ebooks are still outside the publishing environment and competitions. When I read about some expensive creative writing courses I feel like screaming. I was for a short internship at Holden where I discovered “The Book Industry” and I refused to be part of it. I could have had contracts with big publishers but I said no. I could also have had the “push” from Camilleri, my fellow countryman, but I also refused this. And all this to help small publishers who have never even thanked me. I fight against the windmills every day because I’m not on facebook, I’m not on twitter, I’m not on intagram and tik tok … practically I don’t exist except on wordpress where I manage blogs. I’ve never written for money. I have not agreed to advertise on my blogs and I have never asked anyone to review me and I have never advertised myself. I’m naive in a world of hungry wolves trying to excel. And I see every day that people no longer reads many books, no longer leaves the house, does not want real relationships but only virtual ones and I … I am the opposite of this and I am isolated for my different ideas.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 