Why I Refuse to Stop Saying “Narcissist”

Today’s subject is one that regularly makes my blood boil. It’s the idea that unless someone has a formal diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder (NPD), we’re not allowed to call their behavior narcissistic.

Not even if it matches every textbook trait. Not even if you’ve spent years studying it, years living with it, and years healing from the fallout.

Apparently, unless your “special someone” voluntarily sits down in front of a psychiatrist and says “Please assess me for how much I hurt other people”… you’re not allowed to say the word.

But here’s my question: What’s the point of having a word like narcissism if the people harmed by it aren’t allowed to use it?

For me, the word narcissist didn’t just describe my experience—it saved my life. I’m a survivor of a narcissistic family system. And I’m not going to stop using the word just because some people say it’s “overused” or should only live in a psychologist’s office.

If you’ve lived through narcissistic abuse—especially the covert kind—you know how disorienting it is. How long it takes to even see what’s happening, let alone name it.

The truth is, we need this word. We need a way to describe a very real, very dangerous, very confusing pattern of harm. So let’s talk about why the word narcissism matters—and why trying to police it is not only wrong, but dangerous.

“Narcissist” Is a Description, Not a Diagnosis

Let’s get one thing straight: narcissist is not a diagnosis. 

It’s a descriptive word.

What is a diagnosis is Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), as listed in the DSM. But when most people say narcissist, they’re not diagnosing—they’re describing a pattern of harm.

We use descriptive labels all the time without formal diagnoses: addict, perfectionist, controlling, anxious, burned out, avoidant, toxic. No one panics when those words are used.

But say “narcissist”? Suddenly, everyone’s up in arms, indignant, horrified. It's illogical.

Narcissism Harms Others

Here’s why this matters.

Most diagnoses are about helping the person who has them. Narcissism—especially at the personality-disorder level—is one of the few patterns where the primary harm is to other people.

That’s why it’s different. That’s why we need a shared language. Because if we don’t have words for these patterns, how do we name what’s happening?

Think about it: we don’t hesitate to name a substance use problem when someone’s drunk at work, hiding bottles, or driving under the influence. We’re not attacking—they’re descriptive terms that help us navigate reality and make safer choices.

The same should apply with narcissism. We’re not using the word to punish—we’re using it to protect.

We don't have to have a formal diagnosis to use the word "narcissism".

The DSM Was Meant to Help, Not Silence

Even the DSM—the manual that officially defines NPD—says its goal is not just accurate diagnosis.

It’s also about:

• Standardizing communication

• Supporting treatment planning

• Guiding research

By their own definition, it’s not a gatekeeping tool for professionals only. It’s meant to help people—including those harmed by narcissistic behavior—understand what’s going on and find a way forward.

The Word That Changed Everything

I didn’t go searching for the word narcissist. I stumbled into it.

My therapist first told me I was codependent. I didn’t even know what that meant, but she recommended a book—and it was like reading a script of my life. The author understood me better than I understood myself.

But the book said codependency was common in children of alcoholics or drug users. That didn’t fit—my parents didn’t drink. Substances were unthinkable.

So I was left wondering: What am I missing?

Toward the end of the book, there was this offhand mention of narcissism. I dismissed it immediately—my parents weren’t flashy, no sports cars, no public tantrums, no designer sunglasses.

But the codependency part fit too well, so I kept digging. And narcissism kept showing up. Again. And again.

Eventually, the traits clicked. Not just the grandiose type, but the covert ones: the guilt trips, the silent treatments, the gaslighting, the “poor me” stories, the emotional exploitation.

I hated the word. I didn’t want it to be true. But once I understood it, the fog lifted. For the first time, I stopped blaming myself.

And that was the beginning of healing—from depression, anxiety, PTSD, and suicidal thoughts.

I didn’t use the word narcissist to throw stones. I used it because I was drowning, and it was the lifeline I needed.

Stop Policing the Word—Start Asking Why We Need It

When people say, “You shouldn’t use that word unless they’ve been formally diagnosed,” I just shake my head.

Because here’s the truth: most narcissistic people will never be diagnosed. They don’t see themselves as the problem.

If we buy into that restriction, we render the word useless. And we end up right back where so many of us started: in silence, in self-doubt, in pain.

We need the word. To talk to our therapists. To search for books and podcasts. To Google at 2am when we’re desperate for clarity.

Yes—we should be informed. Yes—we shouldn’t use it as a weapon. But if the word is accurate? If it helps us make sense of reality and step out of harm? That’s what matters.

And honestly—if someone is so afraid of the word, maybe the better question is: why?

So for the love of healing: let’s use the damn word.

If you’ve been told not to say “narcissist,” or if you’re still scared to say it out loud, please know: you are not alone.

The confusion is part of the abuse. Clarity is what helps us break free.

The word narcissist doesn’t have to be a sword. It can be a compass. A doorway. A light.

And for me? That light saved my life.

As always, please take good care of yourself,

Chess xx