Saturday, February 16, 2013

Sociopaths = communication skills

I was joking with friends the other night about seduction. We each took turns describing how we would seduce the other, if we wanted. I was impressed with some of the good ideas. For instance (caveat -- not too soon into a relationship or it will ruin the effect), take the person to an event or location, or participate in an activity in which the target is no longer in his/her comfort zone -- culturally, socially, or even related to their sense of physical safety and well-being. With the proper preparation, your target will be forced to rely on you, and will have to trust you to help them navigate the situation successfully. After instilling this sense of unease and reliance in your target and after successful completion of the task, let things take a turn for the very physical. Their adrenaline and fight or flight senses should still be up from the challenge, so things will seem very exciting and intense to them.

As we continued talking, though, it was clear that I differed from most people in thinking that a broken heart is its own reward, whereas other people use seduction more as a means to an end -- a happy, successful, intimate relationship. One person wondered at what would be the point of keeping up a charade indefinitely. What point, indeed. Although I derive a good deal of pleasure from playing games, I know that there are certain things, certain life experiences or levels of trust, that games cannot provide. That doesn't mean that my hard-won skills are useless, though. I like to use the analogy of hitting a golf ball with a strong lateral wind. Your first inclination, before you notice the wind, is to hit the golf ball essentially straight. When you take the wind into consideration, though, you realize that to hit the target you seek, you have to skew the trajectory from the start. The same can be true of good communication. If you know that your listener/audience has certain prejudices or sensitivities, it is foolish to not take these into account. If you are trying to communicate to someone in that situation, you must imagine what your listener is hearing, rather than what you are actually saying. Keep tweaking your intended speech until you have accomplished your true goal in communication -- communicating a particular idea to a particular person, rather than just saying what you mean to say. Yes that is manipulation, but it is also just good communication.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Tell me doctor (part (3)

(cont.)


High school was boringly uneventful. I saw myself forced to attend to my senior prom dance, because my mother wouldn’t let me off it. So, to please her, I gave in. By the time I got to college I was more than sure there was more to than just some temporary ‘bad attitude’. It had to be. It wasn’t a phase anymore. I had been like this my whole life, placing aside any plausible traumatic events, which I handled with gold star ease. Of course, not being able to ask anyone and having more important things to handle, it had to take the backseat.

Nowadays, little things have popped up and made me wonder about a term. A word. Little things like my inability to make eye contact with myself. In the mirror. Like anybody else. Of course, the ability itself is there. But the seeing “beyond” the mirror thing, which people talk about, that, that I can’t do. Why? Simply because I see nothing. So, I become frustrated. Not that it means much to me to see something, it doesn’t. My eyes work perfectly, regardless of the abuse I put them through, and are visually pleasant. This vacancy frustrates me because, when I make eye contact with others, I can read them. I can see them far more clearly than by just reading the regular signs (behavior, mannerism, tone of voice, word choices, etc.) And with myself, I see nothing.

There are also the concepts of Empathy, Sympathy and Conscience. Those are fun. For about five minutes.

Not too long ago, I decided to bluntly ask, “What’s the difference between Empathy and Sympathy?” Needless to say, it caught those in the room off guard.

The question came to mind, and out of my mouth, because they were watching some 48 hour TV program which collects money for a foundation. It builds specialized hospitals for disabled children who do not have the resources for whatever problems they carry. Those in the room, they were very— touched. Me, I intellectually sympathized with the whole ordeal but found the program nauseating. And the reactions to it, those, those I couldn’t bear with. They were uncalled for, really. At least from my perspective. I was, I guess, disgusted.

But after identifying and understanding where the repulsion came from, I knew it was because I did not understand what was going on, emotionally. I don’t get that sort of thing. I can’t. In fact, after people tried to, aftershock, explain what the difference between the words was, I was still in need for a more technical meaning. Technically. That’s how I understand things. I looked up the meaning and description of both. 

Dictionaries. Google. They understand me.

To this point, I still think both words to be the same. I sense them as false pity. But you can’t say that to people because they’ll get hurt. Insulted. Guarded. Betrayed. “False.” It triggers a lot for the average folk. I’ve noticed. I have also noticed that I don’t know what being sad truly feels like. Much less depressed. 

People have made me wonder about a lot of things I’ve never experienced. And about those things which I enjoy but others see as abnormal. Like solace. Peers often see the pleasure I take on being alone as “sad”. To me, that’s a repugnant thought. It’s not sad, it’s liberating. It lets me breathe. Relax. Not having to put up with human interactions, it’s a relief. But again, I must create relationships because it’s boring when you’re alone for too long. I don’t need people but I’ve always liked observing human interaction. Even when I partake.

I remember, when I was a kid, hiding out on our house’s rooftop. Under my bed. Anywhere. Anywhere to be out of reach. Sometimes I was found, sometimes I wasn’t. Either way, the ending to these episodes were always the same. Me, coming back to the family as if nothing had happen. Because, well, nothing had happen. Though I could tell my parents were angry. Mad at me for disappearing. I never acknowledged their frustration. I didn’t see why I should care. I still don’t. If they were worried, angry or scared, it was not my problem. As far as I was concerned, I could do as I pleased. I mean, I wasn’t hurting anybody, technically. So it was okay. Was it too much to ask just to be by myself? Nope. Not to me. Even if I was five. These “disappearing acts” were none of their business and so they remained.

Then comes my thoughts on Conscience. Which I thought were the same as everyone else’s. Apparently, and accordingly to a certain book, I was wrong. Making it to the point, what I think of Conscience is just a taught behavior. A mimic. Like table manners while growing up. Our parents, the surrounding responsible adults, teach us to differ between Right and Wrong, in the same way they were taught by their own. That’s how I see conscience. Thing is, that could also be considered as the superego. I guess that’s what I get for deconstructing every little thing. Deconstructionist. I should add that to my resume.

Another subject that leaves me at odds is Mortality. Others’ and my own. I don’t think I see it properly. Even my father’s death didn’t affect me as much as expected to. Me being on the verge of dying (under the knife, in various occasions), didn’t affect me. Family members dying, friends... nothing. At this point, and maybe it’s because of the many years as a patient that have me trained but, none of that affects me as I see with other people. I remember being the only one with dry eyes at my father’s funeral. It was, weird.

It is due to this lack of--whatever it is that makes people so emotionally invested, that my mother says she’s scared of me. She is afraid because of my “apathetic”, “tactless”, “unemotional”, “shameless” and “antisocial” behavior. Her words not mine. Of course, this is something I cannot help. Seeing death as just the end of a cycle. It happens and that’s that. I understand that people miss people. I mean, I miss my father’s company, now and then, but there’s nothing tragic about it. Not even if they were killed, or murdered.

Because of this, people tend to see me as cruel. Mean. Cold. That last might be true. But Cruel? That I only am when interested in being so. For example, something I should feel ashamed about, though I’m not, to enjoy psychological torment. It’s a real thrill. Most of the time, just to be perverse. For pure sadistic fun. I can’t help myself. As said, I should feel ashamed, but I’m not. Then again, I rarely am. And when I become aware that I should be, I flaunt my wrong doings. As you may have noticed.

Anyway, to finally put an end to this novel, my most recent realization. 
One day, not too long ago, while sitting about, thinking, it came to me like a car crashing on the back of my head. “I feel like a ghost.” The words merely mouthed but quite present.

I’ve always been aware of this inertia. This suspended animation. This separate life I’ve carried. But I’ve never been really able to verbalize it accurately. Until now. The best way I can put it, it’s like the entirety of your existence is parallel to those around you. Like watching life take place, observing it happen. Every single thing. But you’re behind a plastic sheet. A transparent, endless and inescapable curtain which allows you to be seen, to be superficially acknowledged by others, “the living”, but you never really partake in their lives. You exist. Sure. But you’re not quite with them. That’s what being what I am feels like. Whatever it is I may be.

Since I was a child I always danced around the thought of disappearing. One glorious day would come and I will take off, without a word to anyone, and disappear. For good. Never to be heard of, or from, again. My childhood fantasy. A dream. Some kids dream of being a princess, of adventures, of growing up and being like mommy and daddy. Me? I dreamed of isolation. Of finally being able to be absolutely free. To be myself without calculating every word, every movement, every thought. To be alone. What a dream.

So, do tell. Should I seek psychiatric help or, is it all manageable enough? Regardless of what the answer might be, I politely thank you for taking the time and reading this unnecessarily long email. Have a good one.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Tell me doctor (part 2)

(cont.)


By the time my siblings were born and I started school, I had already developed addictive tendencies (an understatement for a full blown addiction) and a rage act. An act I would constantly submit my mother to, because of the disconnect, which I found tedious and unnecessary. Like her. And because of the habit. Addicts become angered and defensive when confronted, and that was me. A little too often. Screaming that I hated her, that she wasn't my mother, etc. Anything to hurt her and walk away. Disregarding consequences.

At this point, I was already showing signs of antisocial behavior. Sure, I liked to go out and play, with very few selected acquaintances. With friends. But I much preferred (and still do) staying indoors, by myself. Either playing on my own, drawing, or watching a movie.

Sometimes I think and wonder if I was born to either be in jail or in a mental hospital. I’ve always felt that way. I can tell you that I’d do just fine. Confined in a four by four, blank walled cell. With nothing to do and no one to talk to. I’ve always lived in my head so there wouldn’t be much change. I’ve never had a problem with pretense (it’s like a switch.) With dissociation and compartmentalization. I mastered them at a very young age, due to my one-too-many, objectifying, hospital stays (I see myself as a Subject rather than a Person) and, I often use them to my advantage. Not as a coping mechanism but as tools. Though I am more than sure any therapist would say differently. 

Also, I’ve never been too keen with showing affection, or having it offered to me. Hugs alone make me doubt my every move. If I am to give one, or am given one, I have to mentally prepare myself beforehand. No matter how spontaneous the act may seem, it’s always carefully calculated. Any sort of affectionate gesture is, to me. A kiss, a hug, a--whatever else. It’s rehearsed, in my head at least. And it has to be. Otherwise, it’s an uncomfortable, awkward moment, for my counterpart. For me it’s simply confusing. Same goes with compliments and love confessions. My usual response, “Um, OK.” Then, silence.

Ex. One of my mother's favorite tales. 
If someone, either in attempting to be polite or because they genuinely wanted to, kissed me on the cheek, I would immediately rub my face clean. Agitated. Obviously, I was seen as rude, though they would say "cute". Soon after many insults of this sort, from my part, my mother had to teach me to be polite. Such a concept. Like a pup being prepared for a dog show. I hated it. The idea of not only putting up with people but also having to pretend to like them. To be "nice" to them. It took me years to get used to it. Used to it, not like it.

As for the addiction, it wasn't a big deal. Not from where I was standing. My parents knew about it but never did anything to stop it. Suppose I can't blame them, being new to the whole parenting alone, it's no easy task. Or so I'm told. Specially with a sick kid. The expected over-protectiveness and all. Suffocating. And so, an opposing reaction. Sometimes.

I would hide, lie, act. Whatever had to be done to get what I "needed" (wanted*). Consciously. After many years, the summer before I started high school, I decided I was going to quit. Cold turkey. And I did. And I haven’t gone back to it since. Will power, another switch. Reason why I have little to no sympathy for addicts. Bit ironic, I know.

During one of appointments, my then pediatrician warned my parents to be really careful with me. He told them that I was really smart, perhaps too smart for my own good, as they say, and that I knew how to handle people. That I would know exactly what, when, how to do whatever I had to do, to get my way. That they shouldn’t take on my “disability” as an excuse to let me get away with murder. That if not careful, I would use them. Manipulate them. That for their sake, it was better off if they kept me intellectually stimulated. Busy. I suppose that’s how I became an artist. Art. We all have our ways to feel connected.

I'm not sure what I did to make the Doc so concerned for my parents but, to date, it remains true. Sometimes, when extremely frustrated, I have outbursts. Small, raw moments when people get glimpses of what I call the “inner me”. Though rare, I hate it when it happens. Not because I’m shy, or coy, as people usually perceive me to be (I keep to myself). But because it means I was distracted. A spontaneous and small loss of self-control. Like with those childhood pets. Loss of self-control. Extremely irritating to me. My thought process is, “I know better. I can do better. I am better than that.”

Somewhat compulsive, I admit it. Borderline scary, I admit that too. But being as experienced as I am, as good as I am with controlling myself. Even those small impulses. Those primal urges. This, this is like a slap on the hand. Undermining. If I’m as good as I’ve come to be with this sort of thing, the average reactions shouldn’t be a problem. But I am aware that I have been caught in the middle of the confusion when trying to find an appropriate expression, reaction, reply. When I don’t know what people want from me and I have this odd, blank expressionless face. However, there had been times when the absolute opposite happens. With my siblings, it’s happened, "People should be thankful I don't manipulate them as much as I could!" To which they usually agree. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, or bad. If anything, these small moments of off-guarded behavior show me that, yeah, maybe, somehow, in some way, they know that something is off. Not right. Not properly.

My siblings. If I believed in love, I'd love them. Thing is, I'm not sure if I’ve ever felt love. Or loved. Even with my father. I felt understood, accepted. Not loved. I don't even know what that feels like. And the picture I have of what the L-word is supposed to be, it seems too Disney-like to be real. Of course, that could be expected from an atheist, which I've been my whole life (never wrote to Santa.) Nevertheless, I am curious. I don't think my idea of love is the same as the “real thing.” If it does exist.

In fact, I don't think I love. Sure, I care enough. Appropriately enough to make a mental note of X subject. I tend to be more, territorial. Protective. But that's not love. As far as I see it, that's animal instinct. It's primal. It's selfish, and sometimes childish. Like a wolf with its cubs. Or food. It's always been that way and I don't think it has any possibilities of changing. At least, I hope it doesn't. Because I wouldn’t know what to do with sentimentalists and the uselessness that comes with them.

Anyway, growing up, I was never interested in relationships. In puppy love. In crushes. I’ve always liked being alone so, I didn’t see the supposed need to have any of that. If it ain’t broken don’t fix it, right? And sure, don’t get me wrong, there has been attraction towards some individuals but, never something I couldn’t live without. That much’s still the same. But I must admit that there have been moments when, out of boredom or frustration given isolation, I wished I was in a relationship. Like my peers. Then I think about it again and shake off the idea as a whole, because if unnecessary, absurd.

And maybe that’s part of what’s brought me to write this letter. Curiosity first and then, a small need to know if maybe there is a logic explanation to my ways. Please, do not misinterpret that as a need for “meaning”. A “purpose”. I find both myths ridiculous.

At the age of twelve my father died, and I’ve been alone ever since. Well, in a sense. I’ve always been alone. We are all in our own. Respectively. At least I see it that way. We create relationships with constant shared moments but, in the end, we’re on our own. Some like it, some don’t. I, I remain indifferent.


Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Tell me doctor (part 1)

From a reader:


I was born close to twenty-five years ago to a nice, inexperienced, young couple. I am told I was an average baby, behaviorally speaking. Except, before I was six months of age, I was diagnosed with a congenital cardiovascular condition. This placed me on the operating table in a nothing less than immediate timing. (Hereby why I suspect any attachment disorder and aspd just about equally.) My mother tends to repeat the tale of the aftermath, which obviously made an impression on her. How as they visited me, while in intensive care, my infant self, awake, turned away from them and did not give into any gestures of affection.

In my early years, I noticed, and this from personal memory, that I had no real connection to my parents. Or anyone, for that matter. Sure, they were my parents but, I was still in some separate, parallel existence. Needless to say, I never spoke of this perception to them, or anyone else. In fact, this poor excuse of a letter might be the first time I let anyone on my little dark "secret". I don't mind it though. If anything, it's like lazily tossing a pillow.

As a child, I saw the people around me, especially and most specifically adults, play make-believe in a continuum, inescapable game. I saw it all as hypocritical and obnoxious nonsense. Then, the predicted reactions came along, "Why should I play along?" et cetera. By the time I was in kindergarten, I'd already decided to keep the peace. To play along. With my immediate group, at least. My family.

Family. There goes an interesting concept on its own.

Unknown to her, I've never had a relationship with my mother. If anyone were to ask her, I'm sure she'd say the exact opposite. Which is fine by me. It keeps the peace, as said. With my father, it was a whole different story. If I could ever call anyone a "friend", for whatever I might consider a friend to be, if I was ever "close" to anyone at all, it was him.

Somehow, and this I can't explain, I think he saw me for what I was. Whatever that may be. Therefore, and because he was my father and acted the role to the letter, I could be myself with him. There would be no overreaction. No questioning. Regardless of what I did, this without passing judgement simply because of our ties, he accepted me. I'm not sure if he understood me, thoroughly, though there was a certain willingness for that too, but there was acceptance. In addition to this objectiveness from his part. I could sense it, at arm's length, now and then. Not overly abrasive nor cold. Simply, objective.

That distant relationship was the best thing I could possibly ask for, if I had ask for anything at all. Though I knew, somehow, it was abnormal. Which, again, was fine with me.

One thing that has recently made wonder about this father and offspring companionship is the memory of those odd bits from my already unorthodox childhood. I remember being cruel to some of our house pets. In both occasions, my father was present.

I cannot say what made me do it, nor why didn't he just stop me, or applied some sort of punishment for my behavior. He did not. He didn't stop me from shoving toilet paper down that puppy's throat, or from beating my 'favorite' cat while in bed. Both actions were spontaneous. I never planned on being cruel. I never even thought about doing anything of the sort. But I did it. Out of nowhere came those two-inch, discorporated fists of mine. And I say Discorporated due to the lack of proper wording to what happened. 

Without trying to sound textbook, I can sincerely tell you that I felt nothing. That is precisely why I remember things clearly. Maybe too clear for my taste. 

My father did not say "stop" or "this is wrong". He simply watched and, before things escalated, with some twisted humor (I took it as such anyway), he'd say something like, "Poor cat." Then, I'd stop and try to figure out why was the cat "poor"? It wasn't necessarily a question but, my job was to understand why he'd say something like that. Why should I feel bad for the cat? I saw it as a lesson. I couldn't say if that's what he attempted to do, I never asked, but that's what I got from it.


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