I had no intentions of writing about this today. It has been on my mind, but not at the tips of my fingertips. Each post I write, or at least most of them, is written in my head before I ever find the motivation or the need, to see it here, etched in screen, immortalized letter by letter, pixel by pixel.
There's a lot to consider when determining what to write-- not that I put much thought into it. One is my audience, which is namely myself. I am a narcissist, but a unique one. My satisfaction comes solely in impressing myself. When I write anything, be it a simple poem or a complex expository, my goal is that months, years or even minutes later, when I reread this work, it will entertain me.
Second is that I maintain a level of honesty. I know that sounds odd. An honest psychopath? Remember though, my honesty and yours are different species of beast. At the header of my blog is a statement that is more a reminder for me than an enticement for you; take a peak behind the mask. That is my thesis, the prompt of this blog.
Most of you don't know this, but this is not my first attempt at 'blogging'. I have always desired a sort of record of myself, a log through which I could view my own progression over time. My first attempt was flawed, it lacked a point, a direction. Rereading it now though, is amazing. The change is staggering. I realized while reading it, what the difference was between this endeavor and that one. Honesty. Not necessarily more honesty versus less, but one level of honesty versus another.
Here I often talk about the various masks I wear, behind one central mask; an omnipotent observer. I talk in theory rather than in example. In my previous journal I wrote about my day, as the person I was that day. Reading it, it has never been more obvious to me that I am a psychopath. I know that sounds crazy, I WRITE about being a psychopath for fuck's sake. But it's true.
Each post, every single one-- was different. Not just in composition but in personality. A different person wrote each one. It may seem like a stupid kid's journal, but from knowing eyes I see it for what it really is; a log of my sociopathy from day to day. How? Each new post was different. Each emotion discussed was shallow and fleeting, the tone shifted radically every time.
Looking back, I can literally recall what shows I had been watching and what people I was hanging out with simply from my drastic shifts in diction and syntax. It was obvious the person writing had no true identity. And each time I would go back and read, even a day later, I felt disgust. Who is this?! Not me!
Because it wasn't.
I was in a rut. I wanted to write about myself but I had no identity. I was bland, colorless water, with no cup to mould to. In a constant state of free-fall. I was writing lies-- everyday lies. Lies I didn't need a keyboard and anonymity to tell.
Often, in the middle of telling of some daily drama in my life I would stop and rant out of frustration. Try to express the truth; but I didn't feel it was understandable. How could I make anyone comprehend that the story I just told, whether it be sad, funny or aggravating, was just as unreal to me as it would be to a nameless, faceless reader who didn't know me? That yes, Johnny stole ten bucks from me and my girlfriend cheated on me with a fag (literally), and that yes, I displayed emotions for all of those things but in reality, I felt none of them. How could I?
It is often declared that psychopaths are not self-aware. That is bullshit, and it is also the truth. In some ways I have always been self-aware-- you might say more so than others, but in other ways I was unknowingly dense. You may not realize it but right now, this very moment, I am answering a question you empaths ask me often. When did you realize you were a psychopath?
The time period of which I wrote my previous journal, was a time of transition for me. I had always known I was different in a way, but at this point in my life it began slapping me in the face like a sledgehammer. I was getting anxious, antsy. Sick of my own reality. Tired of asking the question; why don't I feel anything?
It enraged me. Made me wonder at my own humanity, and hate everyone else's. Because ladies and gentlemen, I knew I was different but felt I was the same. I knew I didn't feel sadness but still thought I was capable. I had seen people killed in cold blood but rationalized that it didn't effect me because I didn't know them very well.
On a cool and cloudy day, years ago, a 'loved'-one died on my birthday. He was in a hospital bed, in his own home and I was sitting beside him. A good man, a kind man. Very sweet and giving, much like a child in his innocence. He loved to play with toys of all kinds, they brought a sparkle to his eyes only seen in the most nurtured of children. He was an enigma to me. An older man who uttered sweet words and gave gifts to me with no ulterior motive; a man I could turn my back to without wariness. Everything about him was lovable. I was impatient for him to die.
I liked him, he gave me no reason not to. The callousness of a psychopath has nothing to do with 'like' or 'dislike'. Those are an Empath's motivations. Rather, we live in the moment-- I, live in the moment. To put it simply and maybe 'cruelly', I liked him when he was beneficial, but now he was a nuisance. His dying inconvenienced me.
I was watching television when I felt it; knew he was about to die. People like me, who have carried on a love affair with death, we feel it. Every sense is another eye, reading a story with a clear ending. My irritation evaporated, I muted the television and turned to him. Something about death has always called to me. It intoxicates me, transforms me into something else. My eyes see everything and yet nothing at all, everything zones in on the deceased and I can feel death tangibly like it's tapping me on the shoulder.
I could feel inside of him. I could taste his perspiration in the air and I could see his lungs sputtering and struggling for another breath; just one more. My gaze was dispassionate and all-consuming; curious even. I realized then, that I should be feeling something; sadness? I stared at him strongly, like you stare into a shadow where someone said they saw something you did not. I wanted to find that something, but I didn't. He stopped breathing. I un-muted the T.V.
Fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour later I found what I was looking for. My family came back, and they saw him. The sight was unimaginable; something I couldn't conjure up on my own. They were inconsolable, truly distraught. Wailing. The wailing was intense and passionate and desperate. Emotion. So much emotion, I can't describe it, the horror on their faces wasn't something a hollywood director could re-enact. It was surreal; powerful. Their grief was so heavy they clung to each other desperately as if the weight of his death were truly crushing them.
I remember sitting on the couch with the remote in my hand, eyes shifting from the T.V to them and trying valiantly to feel there was a difference. I'll be honest, I even tested out the Mute button to see if it would work. It didn't. I was confused and worried. Confused at what it was they were doing/feeling and worried because I didn't feel it too, and I wasn't even sure how to fake it.
So yes, in that way a psychopath is self-aware from childhood. But our memories are short--like I said, we live in the moment. With the passage of time part of me forgets how intrinsically different I am. Especially after all the time I spend pretending. It's easy to consider my acting my reality. But it isn't my reality, it's theirs. Yours. You, the Empath.
Then I discovered Sociopathy and I was less confused. No, I didn't become a Sociopath overnight, just like a nice 'upstanding' straight-boy doesn't become a 'degenerate' queer overnight. You're always different, but then you find a name for it. What that allowed me to do was be honest, in my own way. A different kind of honesty than was present in my past writings. A more self-aware honesty. And so this blog began... exactly one year ago. Happy Anniversary.
