I work in a homeless shelter. It is a place where people are worn down by their stories, day in, day out. They carry the load like a weight upon their shoulders, sitting at tables with hunched shoulders, rounded backs. They walk with shuffling footsteps, backs curled into their chests, their hopes gripped in hands buried deep down into their pockets, forever fearful of coming up empty handed. And every day they wait. And wait. For someone to rescue them. For someone to deliver an answer. An escape. A way out. Another direction. When you're down and out, living below poverty, on the wrong side of easy street, sometimes all you've got to make yourself visible is the story you carry to mark …
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How to recognize and recover from everyday sociopaths - narcissists