It seems a bit ironic that a creature of impulse cannot stand the stochastic processes that go through the minds of those around her. I need direction and insight at all times into the behavior of those around me. I need to know when others are stuck in the quagmire and I need to know that they are making progress in getting unstuck. Of course, this is only relevant when it pertains to me. I am a creature of schedules and road maps even though I am apt to buck either when it suits me. As I continue to evolve in this post-antisocial world of mine, I try my hardest to limit my frustrations to situations and not people. However, I am certain that such frustrations are a function of my narcissism, as to flounder is to waste both my time and my ego – things that I value very deeply. If this is true – that narcissism drives my need to have the stars charted and the cartographers’ work completed – then it is something I must work on as with everything else.
The focus of therapy has changed over time. Before the diagnoses of ASPD, NPD, and BPD and the confirmation of psychopathy, the focus was solely in keeping me alive through the ups and downs of my Bipolar Disorder. After electro-convulsive therapy – which mostly stabilized my Bipolar ways – we focused on my antisocial behavior. Eventually, I would learn how to better control my antisocial energies and the focus would shift again to new bouts of depression and hypomania. This is not the current arc, however. Through nearly five years of psychotherapy, I’ve learned to mellow and to expand my abilities. Simply put, I did not know if I would ever be able to “care” about anything. My life, the life of others, and the shared experiences that we hold were simply irrelevant for the first thirty years of my life. I didn’t know I cared until I cared.
Heavily bandaged, shrapnel in my side, the shell calls me again. The shell. The self. The shell. The self. Where does one end and the other begin? The barbed-wire baton is passed back and forth quicker than the eye can see. No reflection. All reflections. Introspection. Contradiction. Why cannot I maintain who I am?
Napalm showers to show this coward that my brain’s not here to fuck around. Brain matter on the wall, dripping as it falls, only to remind myself of the cyclical nature of it all. Blood boiling, ground soiled, the rage is here again. It won’t stay, I hope and pray, and the status quo will this time stay. Clusterfucked, thunderstruck, it will all come back one day. No control, ripped and torn, I wait for the deluge to end. Sinew flowing, mind-blowing, just please God, let it all stop.
A common theme throughout my book is that of passing. Passing is the act of successfully convincing another person that you are something that you are not. A transgender person passes when pass through spaces gendered according to their target gender undetected. A psychopath passes whenever others are not aware of his callousness or affective empathy deficit. Passing, of course, applies to other groups as well. A person seeking a promotion needs to pass as confident, regardless of any inner shaking. The father consoling his scared daughter needs to pass as fearless. Passing, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. It is a mechanism for survival and for advancement that humans have adopted for millennia. As with all things, it can certainly be spun in an impure fashion, however.