What more do you want from me? This is a question I often ask myself as I stand outside and smoke cigarettes. I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t choose this disorder. I have no other frame of reference, so I do not feel that I am missing out on anything. I recognize that I am a complement to the neurotypicals of this world and I hold no answer to the question of which group is “better.” Harming others eventually lost its luster and I’ve come to learn that a prosocial subversion is far more beneficial than outward destruction. I am impotent and restrained. What more do you want from me?
Those days of being a fiend have passed. Maybe it is because my hair is graying or maybe it is because I realize that the risk is too great and the reward too small for being a force of chaos. I am mellowing. I haven’t forgotten my tricks or my gifts. Forgetting and refusing to honor are two different things, however. I can still remember how to ride a bike even if I choose never to ride one again. I can remember how to destroy even if I take the more boring and slower route to success these days. This is not a call for pity; it is my reality these days.
If I point out the gun at my head, I am called paranoid. If I examine the double standard I am called a manipulator. If I lash out and burn all around me, I am called true. Truth is much fuzzier for the successful psychopath; it is composed of lies, deceit, restraint, and prosociality. My potential sins and crimes remain in my head these days and they are dammed by the free will of the successful psychopath. Is this not good enough? What more do you want from me? What more can I give?