traits of narcissistic parents — 1 explainer, sort of

parents, plural, of the kind we are discussing, is a household configuration that produces a specific brand of adult. i am that brand of adult. the brand is recognizable in a specific way at the supermarket cereal aisle. you can spot us. we cannot spot us.

it is, as of this paragraph, 7:42am on a tuesday. carla is in the all-hands on the third floor, which buys me, optimistically, ninety minutes before the second coffee wears off. i am at my desk. it is not strictly mine for this purpose, but most chairs aren’t.

i opened a tab on the long explainer i wrote about gaslighting, scrolled to the part i liked, closed it, and started typing this. the long explainer is the pillar. this is the side dish. side dishes are where the actual cooking happens.

writing this from the desk. carla is upstairs. i am downstairs. the floors are doing their job.

1. traits of narcissistic parents, the working list

i made the list on a friday at 12:14pm on a sticky note that has since lost adhesion. the note is now wedged inside a hardcover book i don’t read.

the working list of traits of narcissistic parents is, by the count i keep running, eight items long. eight is the number i can tolerate before the list becomes a folder named “evidence” with a question mark at the end. we have, between us and the meeting upstairs, time for eight.

small disclaimer: i looked some of this up. i looked it up by reading the back covers of three books in a bookstore, and by asking ChatGPT for a second opinion on a sunday at 11pm because i did not want to call my mom. ChatGPT gave a competent answer. ChatGPT also told me it could not feel things, which was a relief and a small betrayal in the same sentence.

2. the desk where i drafted this between meetings

the productivity bro on my feed has, this morning, posted a thread about “high-agency parenting” with eight bullets and a stock photo of a man in a clean kitchen using a French press. the thread has 4,800 likes. it is, structurally, the same trait pattern i am about to describe, only with better lighting.

the connection, i promise, is real. the productivity bro thread reads exactly like a parental monologue with the affection scrubbed out. the cadence is identical. “i am the example. follow it. don’t argue.” the only differences are the platform and the hashtag. one is a feed. one is a kitchen. both are loud.

THE PARENT. IS NOT. THE EXPERT. ON YOU.

3. items 1 to 4, the productivity-bro framed ones

here is the first half of the list. these are the traits that, if you put them on a slide deck, would be indistinguishable from the productivity bro’s pinned thread.

1. the score-keeper. they remember every favor. the favor was an apple at lunch in 2003. the favor was a ride to the orthodontist. the favor was paying for the wedding when, by the way, you didn’t even pick the wedding venue you wanted. the score is invisible. the score is also itemized. these are not contradictions in their accounting. they are features.
2. the rewriter. the past is a draft they revise on the fly. you remember the kitchen incident in june. they remember it in september, with different participants, and a punchline they delivered that did not happen. you bring evidence. they say “well, that’s how you remember it”. the sentence is calm. that is the trait. the calm is the trait.
3. the comparer. there is always a child of a friend. that child has, somehow, a master’s degree, a fiancé, and a downpayment. the comparing parent has never met that child. the comparing parent has the idea of that child, and the idea is enough.
4. the audience-of-one. every story is, somewhere in the third sentence, about them. you say “i had a hard week”. they say “let me tell you about my week”. this is not a generosity of perspective. this is a hijacking with a casserole.

the four above are, with an embarrassing accuracy, the four moves the productivity bro makes on linkedin every day before lunch. the difference is the productivity bro does it for clout. the parent does it for, mostly, the kitchen ceiling. the audience is smaller. the trait is the same.

4. items 5 to 8, the wedding-grade ones

the second half of the list i learned at a wedding i went to alone. the wedding was three years ago, on a saturday in september, and i wore a tie i own and a jacket that did not, technically, match. i sat at table eleven. table eleven was the table for distant relatives and people who did not RSVP on time. i was both.

at table eleven, two people had narcissistic parents. i did not know this when i sat down. i found out by 9pm, after the speeches. you can identify a fellow traveler by what they laugh at. when the bride’s father gave a speech that was, generously, 70% about himself, three of us at table eleven looked at each other in a specific way, and a small federation was formed.

5. the affection-as-leverage operator. love, in the household, is a budget line. you withdraw it for behavior. you deposit it for performance. the child grows up doing math at the kitchen table that the child cannot see is math.
6. the perpetual victim. any disagreement is, within thirty seconds, an attack on them. you said “i don’t want broccoli”. they heard “i never wanted you”. this is, technically, a translation problem, but the translator is not available for editing.
7. the achievement-claimer. your wins are the family’s wins. specifically: their wins. they raised you to be this. the wedding speech proves it. the bride’s father, at the wedding i mentioned, ended his toast with the phrase “i raised her well”. the bride was a 38-year-old neuroscientist who had not lived in his house for 20 years. the speech was about him.
8. the boundary-as-betrayal interpreter. say “i can’t make it to thanksgiving” and you have, at the speed of a touch screen, broken the family. the family was not previously broken. the family is, however, now broken. the responsibility has been transferred. the transfer was instant.

those are the eight. there are more. there are always more. but eight is what i can hold between meetings. eight is, in fact, why this post will not become a book. (see also the 1999 paul thomas anderson film about damaged adults still answering for their fathers, which is, in cinematic terms, the eight items above given a soundtrack and a frog rain.)

5. closing pulpit, the parents are abundant, the traits inherit themselves

the inheritance is the part nobody warns you about. you grow up resenting the trait, and then, at 36, on a saturday at 4:08pm, you catch yourself doing item 4 to a partner who didn’t ask for it. the audience-of-one move comes out of your mouth, fully formed, with the rhythm intact. the rhythm is the worst part. the rhythm proves it lived in you.

this is where i would, in a different essay, prescribe a workbook. i don’t have a workbook. i have a third yoga mat, still under the couch from 2023, possibly evolving into its own micro-ecosystem. i have a microwave count i keep meaning to update — the seventh microwave is, this morning, behaving strangely, and its manual lives in a drawer of certified letters and a takeout menu from a place that closed in 2021.

what i have, in lieu of a workbook, is the list of eight. and a sentence i stole from a book i did not finish: “the trait is not your fault. the practice of it is your responsibility.” i wrote it on a different sticky note. that one is also lost.

and now, because we are talking about traits and patterns and the specific disrespect of the calendar, the appropriate hot take from the bank: sundays should end at 6pm. they don’t end at 6pm because the parent doesn’t end at 6pm. the call comes in at 6:47pm. the call lasts 41 minutes. the 41 minutes are itemized, in the parent’s head, as a contribution to your wellbeing. you put the phone down and microwave a thing you didn’t plan to eat. eight items, one wedding, one sticky note. an investigation, of sorts.

an email arrived from the productivity bro. it is not personal. he sends it to a list. i am, technically, on the list. i did not subscribe. i am, in some way, in his database, which is, in a smaller way, a household i did not join.

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