When I mucked up my heart with drug use, the complications dictated that I take heart medicine for the rest of my days. When my rampant jams due to a then-unnamed mental disorder threatened my life and my freedom, I turned to therapy for the long haul. My life is complicated. For that, I am grateful. If I was a simpler creature without the (slight) impulse control that I possess, my life could be much different – if I were still alive to this point. I am not a caricature. I refuse to embrace the caricatures that so many associate with psychopathy and ASPD. I realize that a non-trivial number are, however, and they are truly lost. Not I.
I suppose that I have internal consistency with those that I meet. Each person has a facet of me tailored to them, even if the external consistency – that is, consistency between individuals – is rare. Some know me as a callous and hardened individual. Some know me as a concerned and cautious individual. Some know me as both. Many know me as neither. None of these personas are necessarily false, nor are they necessarily true. I am amorphous and without reflection.
I don’t know where life will take me. I’m frustrated with the perception that I’m spinning my wheels, but when I cannot define a consistent sense of self, the odds are against me. I don’t know that I’m doomed to the tired stereotypical behavior that I once engaged in. I don’t know that I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll feel possession of another. I don’t know that I won’t. Will my impulsivity ruin me or will I find total restraint? Complications will always remain even if the root cause has been treated. I don’t want to be the stereotypically disordered even if that is where I come from.