I am fearful of death but enamored with it at the same time. My lust towards my own eventual demise is heightened, of course, during the throes of Bipolar depression, but I find that I am constantly dipping my toes into the grave just to get a taste of the nonexistence that will eventually be mine. I do not wish to grow old; I have enough problems accepting the toll that hard living and time have on me as it is. Every aggravation of a past back injury, every cough brought on by years of cigarette smoking, and every hair that turns gray are reminders that my best years are behind me. Who would want to see themselves decay? Why do we champion longevity at all costs? I don’t want it.
One of the most unsatisfying aspects of the psychopathic condition is the ennui that is present as a result. Everything is tedious and relatively little satisfies for more than mere moments. No sense of accomplishment is enough to fuel the megalomania. No thrill is enough to relieve the boredom. Nothing is measurable in terms of enduring satisfaction. When others say they are bored, they often mean that they merely wish to read a book or do some other activity than that which they are currently engaged in. No, psychopathic “boredom” is much worse. There seems to be literally nothing to fill the void of our minds’ creation.
I am determined to gain something from this life however. I’m not one to race toward the worm-riddled wooden box at the end of this life. I’m in no hurry to leave even if I have little reason to stay. So, I’ve been left to find a purpose for this life: something that excites and something worthy of my own deep-seated narcissism. And, maybe I’ve found that purpose if only I can realize it.
A reader sent me the following message:
I’ve been re-reading some of my favorite stories lately and I wanted to share an excerpt:
“… He was thinking of his old instructor’s swords again, possibly on the heels of the dazed thought that if he had his own blades, he might have a chance under the onslaught. He remembered his instructor continuously caring for his weapons. But a sword shouldn’t be polished daily like that if it wasn’t used. Particles of oil and powder would accumulate in the grooves, in the microscopic edges of the blade. It should only be cleaned, edged and polished if it served regularly. A sword wasn’t a sword when it was kept in a case, whether it tarnished or was kept to a uselessly pristine shine that dulled its true purpose. A sword was only a sword when it killed.”
” … [He] wasn’t a cruel man, and he did not believe he was a bad one, but there was something hard and sharp inside him, something intransigent and dangerous and pure like a steel blade.
“He’d dedicated it entirely to Justice, since it was better than having it cut randomly; and perhaps that one single choice might seem limiting to people who’d been spoilt with choices all their lives, but for him it was the only way, and he would not have it otherwise.”
I thought you might find it interesting! Accepting the parts of ourselves that are “unacceptable” by finding a purpose for them, and finding beauty – brilliance, even – in the uses and ends towards which they can be aimed; it’s something I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over.
I’ve been thinking about something similar even though I never had such a splendid account to relate to. I died with diagnosis. I became aware of my ill-advised ways and realized that – even if my thoughts never change – that I have to walk toward a different goal. And, I have made that goal to use my abilities for education. What hope is there for the psychopath in society if one is unwilling to put a face with a name and a name with words? Why should those in power have all the say regarding our existence when they have no idea what it is like to walk in our shoes?
Life need not be a fair game. Playing on the emotions or beliefs of others in order to further your own goals should be on the table. It simply makes sense. If you do not rise up and take what should be yours – by any means necessary – then someone else will. I do not necessarily view this as antisocial, but rather as intelligent.
The previous post dealt with what purpose there is for ASPD and/or sociopathic – gods, I need to find an all-encompassing term – individuals. My discussions with other antisocials – maybe this could be the term? – suggested that many of us are simply trying to stave off boredom and that our purpose could be as simple as fighting that damnable state. I argued that, no matter what purpose we define for ourselves, we antisocials have an advantage in seeing such purpose realized as we do not concern ourselves with taking a fair share of the “resources” that exist all around us. No, it goes further than that. Not only do we not require a fair share, we are masters of subterfuge when it comes to obtaining a more than fair share; we do not need to play nice with our gluttonous wants.
I’ve been posing a question to other ASPD and/or sociopathic individuals as of late, asking what purpose we can ascertain for our lives. Given that we are, generally, unable to stick to – or even make – long-term goals, what is there to truly live – or die – for?
It is not just an inability to realize long-term goals, but the fact that any goal requiring interpersonal contact is deadened and dull. It seems that most of us simply cannot connect with other humans on anything but a superficial level. When you lack empathy and see others as tools, what deeper level can be had?