When I catch myself ruminating on the nature of being—a pastime that sounds more philosophical than it actually is—I often find myself thinking about the Narcissist's Prayer by Dayna Craig:

That didn't happen.
And if it did, it wasn't that bad.
And if it was, that's not a big deal.
And if it is, that's not my fault.
And if it was, I didn't mean it.
And if I did, you deserved it.

The beauty of this prayer lies in its surgical precision. It maps the narcissist's thought pattern with razor-sharp accuracy. Each line represents a perfectly choreographed sidestep and a lunge away from responsibility and accountability.

After years of therapy—because apparently I needed a professional to confirm what my nervous system had been screaming for four decades—I realized I had grown up in the shadow of a narcissist. The recognition hit with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, which then struck me in the back of my thick, anxious skull.

But here's where things get murky. There's a genuine misconception of narcissism floating around these days, and it's rampant. We have Instagram and TikTok "narcissists"—unseen individuals diagnosed by "empaths" wielding iPhones like medical degrees. The slight of an Internet Narcissist is usually vague and conveniently out of context, ranging from a disappointing partner to a negative encounter at the grocery store.

"He cheated on me and ghosted me! He's a narcissist!"
"She screamed at the cashier! Total narcissist behavior!"

Sometimes we even catch people with false confidence or run-of-the-mill egomania in the crossfire: "She takes a lot of selfies—what a narcissist!" "Look at that narcissist, bragging about his conquests!"

These are not true narcissists. These are Internet Peacocks, flexing for clicks and validation. True Narcissistic Personality Disorder—as diagnosed in the DSM-5, not the DSM-TikTok—operates on an entirely different level. But since I'm not a psychologist, I only feel comfortable describing one through prayer, line by line.

So, let's talk about my narcissist.

That didn't happen.

My narcissist is such an expert in gaslighting, she'd probably claim she invented the technique (if she knew what it was). Every time I've reminded her of the times she hurt me—long past and recent past—she suddenly develops a case of selective amnesia that would impress neurologists.

Picture this: I remind her, "Remember when I was seven and you pushed me off my bike and I broke my arm?" (This is a metaphorical example; this isn't a real one.)

"What? I didn't do that!"

No matter how many times I show her my medical records—the metal rod in my arm, the scar on my elbow, the hospital photos—she refuses to admit it happened. Reality becomes negotiable when you're dealing with a narcissist.

"It did happen, and you pushed me," I insist.

She continues to insist I fell. Despite my repeated reminders of how she chased me down the sidewalk, yelling, calling me names, and literally announcing, "I'm going to push you off your bike!"—she refuses to admit it.

And if it did, it wasn't that bad.

Suddenly, my narcissist's memory makes a miraculous recovery. She remembers me falling off the bike, but the narrative has been sanitized for her protection.

"Oh, you were fine. You had a cast."

"I was in agony. I rode in an ambulance. They had to reset my arm in traction. I was out of school for two weeks. My elbow came out of my flesh."

Facts, it seems, are just suggestions when viewed through the narcissist's lens.

And if it was, that's not a big deal.

"Oh, you're being a baby," she says, employing the classic minimization technique. "You were out of school for two weeks. You didn't have to do homework. You make it seem like you were close to death when all you did was hurt your arm. It was your left arm, too. You could still write. You even got pain pills."

"You took those pain pills," I say. "You said a seven-year-old didn't need them."

The goalpost has moved so far we're playing in a different field.

And if it is, that's not my fault.

I think I've cornered my narcissist now, but she's crafty. She knows how to escape these situations—she's had plenty of practice.

"I don't see why you're blaming me, though," she says. "We were both miserable. There was only one bike and we had to share it. You weren't sharing."

"Need I remind you," I say, "that you pushed me and broke my arm!"

But logic is just another inconvenient obstacle in the narcissist's obstacle course of deflection.

And if it was, I didn't mean it.

She throws up her hands in theatrical despair. "It's not like I wanted you to break your arm! I didn't set out to break your arm when you fell off your bike. I only intended to get you off the bike."

My narcissist starts crying now. She wants me to feel sorry for her—for breaking my arm. The audacity is almost admirable. But this time, I ask her: "Okay, if you didn't mean it—then why haven't you apologized?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke from a extinguished candle.

And if I did, you deserved it.

This is the final nail in the coffin, where my narcissist gets as close as she can to admitting wrongdoing without actually doing so. She doesn't look me in the eye—that would require acknowledging my humanity—she just rolls her eyes and says, "If you had just gotten off the bike and shared it, this wouldn't have happened."

How many times have you heard that deflection? "If only you had [blank], I wouldn't have [blank]." That blank usually ends with some form of "hurt you." The end of your suffering depends on their happiness, which is a bucket with a hole in it—always demanding to be filled, never holding water

So no, narcissists are not Internet Egotists posting gym selfies or bragging about their weekend adventures. They're not your ex who cheated or your coworker who takes credit for your ideas. They're something far more insidious: destructive forces that operate with the precision of scalpel and the empathy of a raging bull.

The best way to deal with them, I've learned, is to not deal with them at all. But if you must, remember: the prayer never ends. It just starts over, with different words, different situations, but the same relentless rhythm: That didn't happen. And if they did, you deserved it.

The cycle is perfect, in its way. Perfectly terrible, but perfect nonetheless.