Children raised by such parents grow up unconsciously assuming there are only two possible relationship modes: Some become thoroughgoing narcissists, others eternal echoes. (Some bounce between these two states, acting oppressively in some of their relationships but groveling in others, like the middle manager who trashes subordinates but toadies up to the boss.)
When two people who fall into this kind of dyad meet, they bond instantly, like Krazy Glue. "I feel as if I've known you all my life," they say, basking in the familiar narcissist-echo energy. There are no arguments, no awkward uncertainty about who should do what, because the echo immediately begins reflecting the narcissist. She stops listening to rap, catching her new friend's polka fever.
Even more important, the echo assumes all the subtle work of friendship: initiating contact, arranging activities, offering compliments and other forms of nurturing. She doesn't mind things being one-sided; she's just grateful—ecstatic—that she's being adored by a replica of the parent who couldn't love her. And the narcissistic friend really is adoring—not of the echo, as they both mistakenly believe, but of her reflection in her new friend's eyes. It's all fun and games, right up until someone gets stabbed.
The Bitter End
I'm devastated," whispered my echoey client Naomi. "My best friend just...dumped me. I don't understand; we're so close. We went to each other's weddings. We talked every day. Then out of the blue, she tells me I've changed, I'm getting selfish, she's done with me. I don't think she'll ever speak to me again." Baffling as it may seem if you don't understand narcissism, Naomi is probably right. Her long-standing friendship is likely over.