Avoid These Self-Centered Behaviors (3-Video Compilation)

Have you ever paused to ask yourself whether you might be a narcissist, or at least exhibit narcissistic behaviors sometimes? If you grew up abused or neglected, you may have learned to be more self-focused than other children. As an adult carrying the scars of that trauma, you can still find it hard to accept criticism or to truly turn your attention toward others when they need it. That response is common, and the good news is that it can change. But how can you tell when these patterns—often linked with complex PTSD—cross the line into actual narcissism? In the following discussion I outline narcissistic-style behaviors that commonly appear in people with CPTSD, especially in the early stages of recovery. Complex PTSD and narcissism are intertwined but distinct: a narcissistic caregiver can cause CPTSD in a child, and a parent who is emotionally unavailable, controlling, or obsessively self-focused often fails to see or validate the child’s true worth. People affected by that often grow up wounded, vulnerable, and prone to attacking themselves. What’s less often talked about is how children sometimes internalize their parent’s narcissistic patterns so deeply that later in life others can experience those same narcissistic behaviors coming from them.
People often say, “If you can ask yourself ‘Am I a narcissist?’ then you probably aren’t,” but that can be misleading—anyone can say the words. The honest truth is that everyone shows some narcissistic tendencies at times. Those tendencies become especially visible when CPTSD is triggered, and they’re a big reason why people with CPTSD can have such difficult relationships. None of the abuse you experienced was your fault; you didn’t choose it. But it’s worth examining whether you might sometimes be pushing people away with the same self-focused behaviors that once harmed you. These are usually tendencies rather than the entrenched traits of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Personality disorders are stubborn and hard to shift, but the childhood wounds behind CPTSD and the resulting patterns are changeable—though not overnight. This flexibility means healing is possible, and I’ll describe ways to do that. First, though, let’s look at the specific behaviors that trauma survivors often display. Not every CPTSD symptom looks like narcissism, but several do.
First, people with CPTSD often get absorbed in their own feelings. When emotional pain becomes dominant, it can blunt sensitivity to what’s happening in other people’s lives. If you’re in deep distress, it’s easy to miss a friend’s struggles or to be oblivious to what’s going on for someone sitting beside you. I had a stretch in my life when three close relatives died within a year; during that same period I was attacked on the street, dumped, and hit by other hardships. I was overwhelmed—drowning in sorrow—and my PTSD symptoms hijacked my thinking. I could barely read or follow conversations; sometimes I couldn’t remember who I was talking to. A friend told me I was being self-centered, which angered me at the time because I truly couldn’t do better in that moment. Still, it was useful feedback: my interactions weren’t reciprocal, and being stuck inside my trauma made true two-way friendships difficult. Few people sign up for relationships that are one-sided, where one person always needs care and attention and gives little in return. If you get trapped in trauma and can’t share the space with others, isolation can follow—because most people prefer mutual connection.
Second, those with CPTSD can become preoccupied with what others think of them. It’s normal for people to wonder about others’ opinions, but CPTSD often brings persistent fearful thoughts: beliefs that others see you as stupid, unattractive, unlovable, or not worth including. Early in recovery I carried a heavy load of worry about what other people thought—“Why haven’t they started treating me better? Why do they keep triggering me? Why can’t they change?”—and that focus effectively becomes about how others serve my needs rather than about their needs and the balance in the relationship. One hallmark of narcissism is an intense concern with whether other people make things go well for the narcissist, often without any reciprocal consideration. That’s a more specific form of the self-centeredness described above.
Third, when CPTSD is active people often feel that their problems are so unique that no one can possibly understand. I hear that all the time in coaching: clients insist, “You couldn’t possibly understand my problems.” Of course every person’s experience is different—some things I’ve faced were less severe than what others endured, and some were worse—but that feeling of being uniquely wounded can turn into a narcissistic-style belief that others must shape themselves around you. It becomes a competition of suffering: “My trauma is the worst, so others must bend to accommodate it.” That stance is unhelpful. What truly helps is seeking common ground—listening for what overlaps in people’s stories and learning from others who have healed. When I reconnected with friends from high school at a reunion, I was surprised by how many of us had similar family losses or parental addiction in our backgrounds. Talking about it together explained so much. The relief of being with people who understand is huge. Conversely, being open to learning from those who didn’t experience your specific wounds can also accelerate growth.
Another tendency tied to CPTSD that resembles narcissism is a fixed victim identity. You were abused or neglected and that made you a victim—but it’s important not to let victimhood become your entire identity. Yes, people with Narcissistic Personality Disorder were often traumatized as children, which may contribute to their disorder, but trauma doesn’t excuse harmful behavior. Holding tight to “I am a victim” and letting it define you keeps you stuck. Much of the shame and discomfort you continue to feel arises in the present moment as fear and resentment, not as a direct replay of the past. This is a radical point: acknowledging you were victimized is not the same as continuing to live as a victim forever. With effort and learning, you can stop being held down by those old patterns.
A related format is the “long-suffering martyr” identity—“I’m so good and everyone else is awful.” If you believe you are the only truly good person on the planet, that’s actually a narcissistic posture. Everyone contains good and bad traits; healing means cultivating strengths while addressing vulnerabilities. Many trauma survivors never had the chance to show their best selves because childhood wounds blocked it; that’s tragic. Those buried gifts are why healing matters. Recovering who you are allows you to contribute your talents, not because you owe anyone anything, but because it brings freedom, joy, and a sense of purpose.
Arrogance can show up, too. Sometimes people with CPTSD assume they know how others should live or what they should change—“Here’s what you must do”—and that elevates the speaker above others. Often this is misdirected help that feels controlling or critical, and it pushes people away. If advice is unsolicited, it can feel like an attempt to dominate. To influence people more effectively, model healthy change by improving your own life. Others are far more likely to ask how you did it after seeing results than to accept a quick lecture.
Another common pattern is difficulty owning one’s role in problems. Some trauma survivors insist everything happens because of other people and deny their own agency. That’s a form of giving away power—handing the control you do have to people who mistreated you. While some abuse is targeted, much of it comes from people’s own inner chaos: overwhelmed or damaged caregivers acting destructively. Reducing every instance of harm to malicious targeting can reinforce helplessness. Instead, use what you now know about yourself to look for ways to protect and empower yourself in the future without shutting down your heart or throwing everyone away. Closing your heart and cutting people off might feel safer short-term, but it’s a temporary fix; the goal of recovery is to reopen connection while remaining wise about boundaries.
Sensitivity to criticism is another area where CPTSD mirrors narcissistic traits. People with narcissism often can’t tolerate anything challenging their self-image. Those with CPTSD are fragile around worthiness and are prone to take criticism catastrophically. Finding coping strategies that let you assess whether criticism is useful—or merely hurtful noise—helps you keep feedback at a manageable distance long enough to decide whether to incorporate it.
There’s also a tendency to be attracted to troubled, less functional people who place you on a pedestal, or worse, to fall into relationships that are very imbalanced. Some people with CPTSD “split”—relationships tilt into someone being superior and the other being inferior—and that dynamic can create cycles of resentment. Equal, reciprocal relationships can be awkward at first when you’re healing, which is why unequal relationships can feel easier: they skip the messy negotiation. As healing progresses, comfort with equality becomes possible and rewarding.
A further habit is making sweeping, resentful generalizations—statements like “Education brainwashes people” or “Religion is just social control”—or blanket declarations like “Everyone I know is a narcissist except me.” Those all-or-nothing judgments are self-centered thinking that put you above others and drive people away. When those patterns calcify, isolation can follow. Recognize it as a defensive posture that often masks deep hurt.
Some people with CPTSD also develop a sense of entitlement: expecting others—“the grown-ups”—to fix their lives, pay for housing, food, or therapy, while feeling no reciprocal obligation. That mindset arises from real need and hardship, yet it can become a belief that the world owes you care without any obligation to give back. Even if some periods of life prevented you from meeting responsibilities, stepping into whatever small contributions you can make—helping a neighbor, offering support in modest ways—releases you from that stuckness. Giving, even in small measures, brings a sense of empowerment and healing.
Right now, independent thinking matters more than ever, but many people will push back or shame you for thinking differently. These “opinion bullies” demand that others adopt their point of view. If you grew up with abuse or neglect, you may be especially vulnerable to being controlled emotionally by people who are forceful with opinions. Childhood trauma often produces a tendency to lose yourself around dominant personalities: you go silent, agree to avoid conflict, or gradually forget what you actually believe. Opinion bullying happens everywhere—family, romantic relationships, the workplace, school, your neighborhood, and especially on social media. For survivors of trauma, the pressure to conform can trigger a deep survival response: keep your head down, pretend, and go along. In that state, some people resort to gossip or online attacks without knowing the facts, hurting others and themselves in the process.
It’s not just imaginary—the risk of consequences for dissent is real in many contexts, and standing up does require courage. Still, it’s possible to build resilience so you don’t lose yourself. You don’t have to argue every time; the crucial point is to make a conscious choice about staying quiet rather than automatically erasing yourself. Strengthening your ability to be yourself in the presence of loud, pushy people will serve you in countless ways as you heal. Disappearing under pressure is one of the main ways abuse escalates: by surrendering your perspective, you let someone else define reality for you. That’s why practical skills are necessary.
Here are five practices to help you hold onto yourself when facing opinion bullies (you don’t have to debate or take them on; you just need to stop being erased):
1) Practice telling the truth—to a trusted friend, to a coach, or to yourself. You don’t always have to confront the person in the moment, but make a habit of articulating your thoughts and feelings. Say them aloud in private, write them down, and get used to naming what you know to be true. Strengthening this habit builds individuality.
2) Strengthen your capacity to pay attention. CPTSD and triggers often produce brain fog that makes it hard to notice red flags. Learning to stay present helps you detect when someone’s agenda is stronger than yours and avoids being drawn into manipulative dynamics. This is a long-term skill, but there are daily practices and calming techniques that help you become clearer about who you are and what is true. (There are free resources—daily practice tools and a free course—available to learn these techniques.)
3) Rebuild your ability to connect with others. Isolation and disconnection leave you vulnerable and less able to read other people’s intentions. Recovery involves forming authentic two-way connections; connected people can sense red flags and are more willing to step away from controlling relationships.
4) Recover a sense of autonomy and self-determination. When trauma feels like it controls everything, remember that you do have agency—small choices and steps you can take. Fear of abandonment or loneliness often freezes that agency, but pushing back in the smallest ways begins to restore it.
5) Lead each day with your own agenda. Intentionally set goals for your healing and life. When you build these five capacities, the power of bullies and their attempts to dominate you will shrink. Often the control you experienced as a child is internalized—you were controlled by others once, and you continue to preemptively surrender to an imagined expectation. Reclaiming your power means not seeking people who define you; it means learning to live on your terms.
There are many triggers that make people with childhood PTSD slip into resentment and harshness—sometimes you’ll lash out at those closest to you. Anger can be necessary to break free from abusive situations, but it can also spill over and wound people when it’s not justified. An angry narrative gets created to justify the resentment. Some anger is essential for survival; other times it’s a hurt response that needs attention and redirection.
To illustrate, here’s a letter from someone I’ll call Jill, followed by a response that addresses her situation directly.
Jill writes: I’m 47, divorced, with a four-year-old son (not by my ex). I’m the youngest of three. My parents separated when I was in first or second grade, but I kept a loving relationship with my dad. I’ve lived away from home for ten years, and I’m planning to move back in with my mother and her husband this summer to save money. My mother fits the classic profile of codependence—low self-esteem, overly eager to please, and quick to use passive-aggressive tactics. My greatest trigger is her indecisiveness; she can’t even order at a fast-food drive-thru without becoming dysregulated. She’s recently shared childhood and relationship traumas with me, so I’m now starting to suspect she may have CPTSD. I’ve witnessed her dysregulation for years but didn’t understand it.
After my dad left, this man moved into our home; his presence made my siblings and me uncomfortable, but my mother insisted we be polite. She values manners and appearances—once she threatened to return my new school clothes if I didn’t say goodbye to him. That dynamic created such turmoil that my sister left during middle school to live with our dad. We never talked about what happened. This man came in and out of our lives for years, and when I was 26 my mother announced she was marrying him. Why did this happen? He had no job, car, or home—he was disabled, an ex-drug addict living with his mother. I accepted her choice and supported her, even though no one in the family approved. He’s still her husband, but now he’s very ill with dementia and COPD and needs oxygen. My mother clings to an idea of us as a happy blended family, even though my sister would never be friends with him. My mom and I have a special relationship, and I don’t want to be her emotional best friend, her maid, chef, therapist, hairdresser, or pretend to be friendly with this man I barely know. She also shows jealousy and micromanaging tendencies that have irritated me for years, though she denies them. If I get a new haircut or a new dress, or after I lost 70 pounds, she makes remarks like “I want that too” or asks me to coach her on weight loss. She has rules for her home and micromanages. She says she needs help around the house, but her demands and entitled tone trigger my CPTSD. I am happy to pitch in, but I don’t want to feel guilty for living my life—going out on weekends, talking on the phone after 9 p.m., or not wanting to cook for her husband as though we’re one big happy family. Her pandemic retirement and caregiver stress have left her isolated, and I do want to enjoy my time with her when I come home. I’ve begun my own healing with the daily practice you teach, and it’s helping me notice triggers and calm dysregulation. How do I set healthy, age-appropriate boundaries with her when she expects children to be respectful and honoring to their parents? I don’t want a repeat of Christmas a few years back when she said she did so much for us. I tried to help and said I’d clean up, but she continued to micromanage. Later, I walked into her room with a piece of cake; instead of asking directly, she said, “Oh, I want some cake too,” in a childlike tone. I snapped, she shut down, and now I’m afraid I might lose it. Please help.
In response: thank you for writing. Reading your letter I wanted to understand the heart of this conflict. A few things stood out. First, your parents split when you were young—around six or seven—and maintaining that loving connection with your dad was a gift. Your parents fought and chose not to tell you the details of the breakup, which can be protective; kids don’t always need the adult explanations. You say your dad cheated and was emotionally abusive, which helps explain why your mom might later have sought different forms of security. You’ve lived away from home for ten years and now plan to move back at 47 with your four-year-old to save money—that’s a big life decision, and there’s nothing wrong with accepting help from family when it’s offered.
Your description of your mother’s indecisiveness is very familiar to anyone who has seen trauma manifest as anxiety or dysregulation—people who have been deeply hurt sometimes struggle with ordinary decisions. When someone gets dysregulated, the best approach isn’t to rush them or criticize; a calm, patient presence helps more than anything. Knowing what CPTSD and dysregulation look like gives you a powerful advantage: you can be a steady, compassionate presence without taking on responsibility for her feelings.
About the man who became your mother’s partner: you describe him as someone who made you uncomfortable, who bounced in and out of the home, and who lacked material status. Your family’s strong dislike of him feels like it was driven by several things: he wasn’t your dad; he seemed “not good enough” by social standards; and your mother pressured you to be friendly, which created guilt. Your sister’s decision to leave and live with your dad indicates serious family strain. None of that excuses hostility toward him, though; from your letter it appears he did not physically abuse you. He may have been argumentative at times, especially with your sister, but many of your family’s reactions likely tied back to loyalty to your dad and the chaotic family history.
Your mother being “big on manners” is not necessarily about appearances. Manners are a framework for kindness and mutual respect. When she insisted you be polite to her partner, that was a reasonable boundary for someone providing a home. If you plan to live in her house, basic courtesy is appropriate. It’s also clear she has had a tough life—being with an ex-addict who became her partner and now is ill must be painful. There’s dignity in caring for someone who’s sick, and that sacrifice matters. The man’s past as an ex-drug user or his lack of material success doesn’t strip him of humanity. Calling him someone with “nothing to show” is harsh and overlooks that love, loyalty, and companionship are also meaningful markers of a life.
Given his illness—dementia and COPD—your mother is likely grieving and burdened with caregiving stress. That’s a vulnerable time for her. If you can approach the situation with curiosity instead of immediate hostility, you may find doors open. One practical assignment: spend time getting to know him, if his dementia allows. Ask him about his past. Listen with genuine interest. Often, when you hear someone’s story, the person becomes humanized and the resentment softens. Your mother would likely be comforted by you making that effort.
You are right to be wary of enmeshment—wanting to avoid becoming her emotional best friend or caretaker in unhealthy ways is reasonable. But you can be kind without losing yourself. If you go to live with her, consider these concrete approaches: use your daily practice (meditation and reflective work) to manage triggers; set clear, polite boundaries (e.g., “Mom, I need a little downtime in the evenings”); agree ahead of time about shared chores and expectations; and offer help because you want to, not out of guilt. Reciprocity is appropriate: if you’re staying in her house and saving money, contributing to the household by pitching in is fair and healthy—otherwise resentment will fester. It’s also reasonable to decline tasks that feel too much—just do so with respect and honesty.
Your story about the cake and the public “I want some too” comment shows a pattern: small passive-aggressive moves that hit a trigger. That’s painful and understandable. Instead of seeing every such moment as proof of malicious intent, try to notice it as a trigger and use your practice to get the fear and resentment out on paper. Regulate first; respond later. When your mom micromanages, respond with calm clarity: accept the help where it’s healthy, and gently state your limits where it isn’t.
Regarding boundaries about socializing and phone time: you’re an adult with a child, living in a home where roles are shifting. It’s reasonable to set times for relaxation and social life. If your mother’s rules feel infantilizing, renegotiate them kindly: “Mom, I’m an adult and need some evening time; I’ll be respectful, but I also need some space.” If she expects you to babysit or to be available for every household demand, have a clear discussion about what you can and cannot do, and be prepared to make alternate plans if your needs conflict.
If you’re worried about becoming like your mother, that awareness is an asset. You can model a different kind of relationship and show your son how to be compassionate without losing himself. Helping in small, consistent ways—doing dishes, listening, running one errand a week—can be both supportive and contained. Remember you don’t have to take on the role of her maid or therapist; you can help in ways that preserve your boundaries.
You mentioned being triggered by remarks about not saying “Happy Father’s Day.” In moments like that, choose grace if it’s safe. A simple, genuine acknowledgment can defuse tension and will be a gift to your mother. If you feel your emotions surging, step away briefly, use a calming practice, and return with clearer intention.
Because you’ve already started the daily practice and are noticing real improvements, you’re in a strong position to use that work to show up differently. Consider using support groups and daily practice calls where people doing similar work gather—there is community support for this kind of transition. If you feel overwhelmed, one-on-one coaching can help untangle deeper resentments so you can soften without losing yourself.
In short: if you choose to move back in, treat it as a chance to practice compassionate boundaries. Be kind, be polite, help where you can, and also set clear limits about what you won’t do. Use your daily practice to keep triggers manageable. Meet your mother’s vulnerability with empathy—she’s caring for a sick partner and may be lonely—but don’t accept being walked over. If being in the house would require you to be consistently unkind to yourself or to your child, make other living arrangements. Otherwise, this could be a rare opportunity to heal old wounds while supporting someone you love. Show up with curiosity—learn about the man your mother loves if possible—because seeing their humanity may loosen the hold of decades of resentment. You don’t have to become enmeshed to be helpful; small acts of love and consistent boundaries can transform both your relationship with your mother and your own inner life.
If this material resonates, consider practicing the daily calming techniques regularly, joining supportive calls, or seeking coaching to work through deeper layers of resentment. The path of healing is gradual but powerful: as the healing advances, pretending and hiding stop working, and you can begin to live more authentically and kindly with others. Above all, treat yourself with patience and allow the small, steady steps of practice to create lasting change.