I have narcissistic traits. My mother used to tell me the story of Narcissus. A hunter in greek mythology who falls in love with his own image. He remains by the lake staring at his reflection until he falls into the water. I spent many days in the mirror. Trying to figure out what people were staring at and find ways to make it presentable to the fairer sex. The constant thought about how I appeared began in my youth. I was the default golden child. I am the first son of two people from very large families. Both of them were not expected to do what they had done. My mother was joked to never find a boyfriend. She is the 4th girl and the 8th child my grandmother had. She was the observer. Also a proud tattle tale. But she ended up married before she had me. A part of the story she makes sure I understand. “You weren’t a bastard.” My father was projected to be like my grandfather who had many personal battles, but my father overcame the pitfalls of his generation. He ended up being far more accomplished and responsible than many men expected. I am the proud product of two individuals with something to prove. Not only did they have something to prove, they proved it and continue to prove it. Before they were 25 in a city where many Black men and women are not expected to reach that age they were married, owned a home, multiple cars, and were on their way to parenthood in a seemingly healthy relationship . Heavy are the heads that wear the crown.

I have many learned behaviors from my two super heroes. I have an understanding for them that doesn’t always show. My understanding for my parents has made me grow. This is no story free of obstacles. They were very hurt individuals at different points in their lives. Hurt people hurt people. Especially the people closest to them. They were separated before 30 with 3 small children and a war in a foreign land standing in the way of their co-parenting strategy.

I grew up under the wings of two beautiful people trying to find their way. And I saw a lot of ugly moments. Moments that I do not wish to be taken back. Moments that allow me to do the work I do today. All of this is to give you, the reader, an understanding of why I have the traits I do. I am disciplined because that is who raised me. I found value in it. At times I ran from it, but I eventually found a way to use it to my advantage. I am loud and outspoken because that’s how the person who raises you is when they have 11 siblings. I was obsessed with my look because my mother was told she was the ugly duckling amongst her sisters. She felt as if she was the outcast. She is the tallest one out of eight. She stood out without trying to. When you are forced into the spotlight, image is highly important. That becomes the way you operate. Your parenting style is not excluded. In my mother’s case it also impacted the way she chose her career. I grew up in a hair salon. 

I feel unheard by so many people and my father did, too. My profession is communication through any medium that is loud enough. My narcissistic traits were a response to my own trauma and they are traits my parents gifted me that they built to protect them from their own pain. At times I was convinced that was the only way to live. Convinced that I always had to make it about me if no one else did. But a trauma response keeps you in the frame of you still needing protection. There is a season for everything. Once the moment is over forgetting to or even refusing to remove the armor that got you through that storm, especially in spaces where they don’t intend to harm you, proves far more detrimental than I ever wanted to acknowledge.

In order to move forward I had to recognize when I was wearing the gloves. A good friend of a good friend told me that. The gloves were put on to protect you? Protect you from what? Environments that were knowingly unsafe that no one intentionally changed? Protect you from being what people don’t want you to be? Even if it’s what you wish to be? Who put the gloves on me? Why did they put the gloves on me? When I recognized I was wearing gloves why was I scared to take them off? Why do I feel so comfortable with gloves on? Why am I afraid to elevate beyond spaces that I know I need gloves for especially when I don’t like wearing them?

It gets deep.

My first letter from the bottom of the lake.

Bip Bip.