From a reader:
I come bearing the question countless others must have asked you. Identity is a confusing and often evasive concept: and though I like to believe I've established a firm sense of self, I'm unsure of my true nature. Am I a sociopath, or simply paranoid about certain characteristics?
Between the years of approximately 8-11, I exhibited a textbook symptom of socio/psychopathy--torturing animals. I didn't know why I did it, there was no logical deduction for the matter. I wasn't expressing pent up rage or harboring intense feelings of vengeance, I just watched in morbid fascination. It was only a year or two later that I told my mother about it (spinning the tale slightly, of course, in order to retain a few layers of the facade I was sure that hid the monster I was) and receiving some degree of comfort at the assurance that I was no such beast. It was natural, she told me. Children often don't know what they're doing. But I knew what I was doing. And I knew that I felt nothing under the thin surface of anxiety and perplexity.
My relationship with my family has been one of occasional turmoil. I regard them as little more than an experiment of sorts--I test out certain erratic behaviors and obscure ideologies in order to observe the reaction they cause among "normal" people and learn based on the results. It's not to say I don't love them in my own way. As with all my relationships, I love them off my perception of their ability to intellectually stimulate myself. I enjoy the responses I can elicit from my family members, particularly my conservative father. But if a bullet was racing towards one of them, I would regard the situation as an unfortunate obligation to step in front of it rather than devotion to a "familial bond". At least I might die an apparent hero--I'm a sucker for the spotlight.
I used to have a friend that I would emotionally toy with more often than not. I was mindful of the effects of the backhanded compliments I gave to her and the jealousy I purposefully provoked among other things. It's easy to read this now and stereotype myself as a simple bitch, but I know that my manipulations were the result of boredom rather than true maliciousness. The same restlessness nearly got me killed by prompting myself to swallow a handful of pills years ago on a whim. I seek understanding and knowledge above all else (well, besides self-gratification), and as I walked past the cupboard I was struck by a longing to know. Curiosity (nearly) killed the cat, I suppose.
Emotional trauma is nonexistent to me. I don't scar quite as easily as others-- all of the potentially triggering events in my life I regard with ambivalence at best. Ms. Thomas, I hate to sound presumptuous but throughout reading your book, but I was struck by the similarity of our upbringings. My father was abusive toward us for a time, yet I have been raised in an actively devout (although Catholic) family. In spite of the fact that I cannot bring myself to wholeheartedly believe in any particular religion, I refuse to negate the possibilities.
I could describe multiple other instances where I was certain I was a sociopath, but I do not like to wear such heavy labels. I find them constraining on my interactions with others. However, my antithesis of this plea for understanding is the odd inconsistencies with my fitting in to this mental condition. While emotional manipulation is endlessly entertaining, I despise asking for material favors if I am in true need. I don't typically go out of my way to damage the feelings of others unless I am provoked by intense boredom, and although I refrain from expressing or even experiencing substantial emotion I think that I care for a few of my friends; if only due to their profound capacity for intellectual conversation. I am risk taking and spontaneous to the point of concern, but I find unlimited joy in pondering the mysteries of life. Do these things eliminate me from the possibility of being a sociopath?
I come bearing the question countless others must have asked you. Identity is a confusing and often evasive concept: and though I like to believe I've established a firm sense of self, I'm unsure of my true nature. Am I a sociopath, or simply paranoid about certain characteristics?
Between the years of approximately 8-11, I exhibited a textbook symptom of socio/psychopathy--torturing animals. I didn't know why I did it, there was no logical deduction for the matter. I wasn't expressing pent up rage or harboring intense feelings of vengeance, I just watched in morbid fascination. It was only a year or two later that I told my mother about it (spinning the tale slightly, of course, in order to retain a few layers of the facade I was sure that hid the monster I was) and receiving some degree of comfort at the assurance that I was no such beast. It was natural, she told me. Children often don't know what they're doing. But I knew what I was doing. And I knew that I felt nothing under the thin surface of anxiety and perplexity.
My relationship with my family has been one of occasional turmoil. I regard them as little more than an experiment of sorts--I test out certain erratic behaviors and obscure ideologies in order to observe the reaction they cause among "normal" people and learn based on the results. It's not to say I don't love them in my own way. As with all my relationships, I love them off my perception of their ability to intellectually stimulate myself. I enjoy the responses I can elicit from my family members, particularly my conservative father. But if a bullet was racing towards one of them, I would regard the situation as an unfortunate obligation to step in front of it rather than devotion to a "familial bond". At least I might die an apparent hero--I'm a sucker for the spotlight.
I used to have a friend that I would emotionally toy with more often than not. I was mindful of the effects of the backhanded compliments I gave to her and the jealousy I purposefully provoked among other things. It's easy to read this now and stereotype myself as a simple bitch, but I know that my manipulations were the result of boredom rather than true maliciousness. The same restlessness nearly got me killed by prompting myself to swallow a handful of pills years ago on a whim. I seek understanding and knowledge above all else (well, besides self-gratification), and as I walked past the cupboard I was struck by a longing to know. Curiosity (nearly) killed the cat, I suppose.
Emotional trauma is nonexistent to me. I don't scar quite as easily as others-- all of the potentially triggering events in my life I regard with ambivalence at best. Ms. Thomas, I hate to sound presumptuous but throughout reading your book, but I was struck by the similarity of our upbringings. My father was abusive toward us for a time, yet I have been raised in an actively devout (although Catholic) family. In spite of the fact that I cannot bring myself to wholeheartedly believe in any particular religion, I refuse to negate the possibilities.
I could describe multiple other instances where I was certain I was a sociopath, but I do not like to wear such heavy labels. I find them constraining on my interactions with others. However, my antithesis of this plea for understanding is the odd inconsistencies with my fitting in to this mental condition. While emotional manipulation is endlessly entertaining, I despise asking for material favors if I am in true need. I don't typically go out of my way to damage the feelings of others unless I am provoked by intense boredom, and although I refrain from expressing or even experiencing substantial emotion I think that I care for a few of my friends; if only due to their profound capacity for intellectual conversation. I am risk taking and spontaneous to the point of concern, but I find unlimited joy in pondering the mysteries of life. Do these things eliminate me from the possibility of being a sociopath?