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In his book Rethinking Narcissism, Dr. Craig Malkin distinguishes between three types of narcissists—the extrovert, the introvert, and the communal.

The extrovert is the easy-to-spot kind whose grandiosity is presented in Technicolor, the preener and the manipulator we’re most familiar with. The introvert (also called the “covert” narcissist) is somewhat more confounding because he or she lacks outward braggadocio and may have a self-effacing or vulnerable manner which belies the way he or she feels superior to everyone. But the communal narcissist is entirely something else. I hadn’t heard of this category until I read Malkin’s descriptions, and perhaps you haven’t, either. This third type of narcissist is a relative newcomer to the party; the designation is only a bit over a decade old.

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As humans, we are hardwired to respond more strongly to bad things than to good ones. It’s no surprise that we feel challenged to connect when another person confides that he or she is suffering emotionally in the wake of a devastating event. Relatively few of us handle these moments with true grace all of the time, even if we feel sympathetic to the person’s plight. Our discomfort sometimes yields to confusion: What should we say? Should we just murmur “so sorry” and leave it at that? Or should we play cheerleader and try to pep the person up?

What exactly is the right thing to do? A true empath knows the answer.

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The most maddening—and the most common—response I get when I write about the daughters and sons of unloving mothers is that people point out that the ones I write about were “only” (quotations marks mine, and meant ironically) verbally abused. Science knows better, but the culture does not; the mantra seems to be that if you’re not bleeding or physically maimed, you’re not really hurt.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

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I’m not asking you to strip your refrigerator of feel-good magnets or to toss all of those inspirational pillows. I’m just asking you to be a bit more mindful of the phrases that cross your lips when someone is need of comfort.

I come by my dislike of platitudes honestly, having been raised in a family which never met a cliché it didn’t take to heart, accept as wisdom, and offer up as the sole balm whenever I was upset. It was complicated by the fact that these were in Dutch—but I learned that the language in which a platitude is expressed matters little. My tears were countered with the truism Na regen komt zonneschijn (“After rain comes sunshine”), but even though the sun always came out eventually, it was clear to me that, particularly in Holland, it can rain for days on end, and what did that have to do with why I was crying? When I was disappointed or hurt, someone would inevitably murmur Alles heeft een reden (“Everything has a reason”) even though it didn’t seem, even at a very young age, that this was either reasonable or explanatory. (It still isn’t.)

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“What about sons?”

That was the question both men and women (who were asking about their husbands) posed to me after I posted my last blog about the common wounds daughters of unloving mothers suffer. “You’re writing about me!” one man emailed, while another commented: “I see myself fitting into avoidant attachment and I’m a guy.” An old friend, who is the only child of a smothering and enmeshed mother, wrote, “Well, I suppose if one has a remote father and a mother who clucks and coos over one’s every fever, chill, triumph, or disappointment, one doesn’t quite know what to make of the world and one’s place in it.”

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