Speaking Falsely

The key to being a successful liar is to sprinkle just enough truth to where even the most sour lie goes down like sugar.  That said, I don’t always follow my own advice.  I often have several arcs in play at any given moment with people that are close to each other.  If they were so keen as to compare notes, I’d be in a world of hurt.  Often, these arcs are spun simply for the sake of lying, not out of convenience or any other tangible benefit to me.  I’ve known of many others that are or claim to be psychopathic and the narrative seems to hold.  Our tongues get us into trouble because we simply are prone to speak falsely.

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Destroy the Mimic

The term ‘psychopathy’ attracts far more than the antisocial.  So many wish to gravitate toward this label for reasons that I will never fully understand.  Those with low levels of empathy (affective or cognitive) seem to want to use the label to explain their being, regardless over whether it makes sense.  Sometimes, the undiagnosed and mentally ill stumble across the term as a means for substituting something “hip” and “cool” for the treatment that they so very badly need.  It’s all rather irritating.  Wolves are wolves.  If you are not a wolf, then you are not a wolf.  It’s that simple, yet people want to be seen as something they are not.  Ultimately, it is the responsibility of those with the condition to speak up, even if anonymously, to correct such dangerous misrepresentations and mischaracterizations of the disorder.

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…And Her Tongue Was Cut Out and Her Hands Amputated

This post has absolutely nothing to do with ASPD or psychopathy.  I get compliments all the time for my use of the English language.  Some like my metaphor, some adore all of the alliteration or assonance, others feel that I just have a way of conveying my thoughts in manner that is both succinct and interesting.  I can’t disagree with any of this.  When it comes to expressing my own thoughts and opinions, I am usually very articulate.  However, when I am confronted with the same from a mind that is not my own, I find that I struggle mightily.  I can speak to others, but when I am faced with interpreting the “music” that flows from another’s mouth, I find myself mute and unable to communicate.  I find myself deaf and unable to listen.  I don’t know how to interpret and I don’t know how to continue the dance.  I suppose these problems lie at the heart of my narcissism and Borderline traits, but I cannot say for certain.

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…And the Mountains Moved and the Spine Contorted

I am, in many ways, a simple person.  I am highly egocentric and I do not tolerate discomfort.  This has led to the burning of many bridges in which I dart into the night, never to be seen again.  I am slowly learning that sometimes bridges can be rebuilt, though.  I may not be apt to avoiding my arsonist ways any time soon, but I can rebuild what I destroy.  I can also rebuild what simply had to collapse under its own weight.

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…And the Animals Were Given Voices

I occasionally bait “true crime” tumblr as a means of exposing idiocy for my own amusement.  The denizens therein have an unhealthy obsession with serial killers and other unsavory types.  They come up with the most moronic of tumblr handles to glorify and idolize these demons of society and they see nothing wrong in obsessing over every detail of the crimes this horrid people have committed.  When they are criticized for essentially taking pleasure in the pain of others, they recoil.  “That would be wrong,” they say, “I merely appreciate the minds that were involved.”  They want to be as close to the bloody vignettes as possible without owning them.  They don’t want to admit that which lurks in every human mind: a love for the macabre and deadly.  This irritates me on several fronts.  I am castigated for my antisocial alignment, though I know the difference between thought and deed.  It also exposes a particular problem in this age of discourse: tolerance of the trash as a means of ensuring that everyone has a voice at the table.  If you don’t like your metaphorical countrymen and the image that they impose on your own, you have a responsibility to silence them just as they have a responsibility to fight back if they feel their cause is just.

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Fixing What Doesn’t Need It

I had a brief but interesting conversation with a friend earlier today.  She was concerned that in these mellow days of mine that I may be susceptible to being “fixed” by another person.  She wondered if I was risking the loss of my very soul via my efforts to shapeshift yet again for something that I want.  I reassured her that this would not be the case.  I’m not in the business of fixing others and I am not with any desire to be fixed myself.  I am who I am.  Warts and all, I celebrate my condition to the extent that I can and to the extent that I can keep myself out of poverty and out of jail.  Why does everyone assume that the antisocial needs to be fixed?  Why do they think I want to be fixed?

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Borderline Blues

The longtime reader knows that I am Borderline in addition to ASPD and psychopathic.  (For a detailed picture of what this looks like, I direct the reader to the book, Evil Genes).  My Borderline facets are on the wane these days, thankfully, and aside from the occasional splitting – alternation between idealization and demonization of another – and black and white thinking, I more or less have this facet of my personality under wraps.  This is a good thing.  As devastating as ASPD can be to an individual caught in an interpersonal relationship with us, the Borderline dynamics with another can be as severe or worse.  I’ve been called ableist for such views, but having suffered with the worst of the condition, I feel confident that I speak truth.  Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow, but it must be nonetheless.

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The Inevitable

I see time and time again, through inquiries or on social media, the desire by many to be willfully blind to the antisocial condition. Frankly, it’s delusional.  Ignoring all evidence in front of them, they seek to paint antisocials as the victims of society rather than the batterers that we are.  I am more than willing to embezzle the trust that others give me, but I’ve also said all along that maybe you shouldn’t give the keys to the world to those that are already proficient in lockpicking.

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Giving Everything but Your Heart

I’m reminded during times of emergency of my stoicism.  I see, all too often, the troubles of others when they try to react when the stakes demand it.  Many with empathy seize up, overtaken by the gravity of the situation and their empathy for those in trouble.  It either takes conditioning or a lack of empathy to be good at handling crises, though.  I remember when my mother had to be sent to the hospital last summer.  My brother, who is highly empathic, could not muster more than a warbling of words while time was of the essence.  However, crisis also teaches me something about myself.  I am reminded of my humanity.  While my actions may be selfish and rarely rooted in compassion, I can still choose to help or hinder.  More often than not, I choose to help.

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