was i a sociopath?

I love a good dose of the socially deviant and mentally disturbed. 

The First 48 is my jam. Dead Again and Intervention are way up there too - along with Stalker, Criminal Minds, The Killing, The Following ... and the list goes on. I am completely fascinated by psychopaths and true crime stories. It's nice to see that there are actually people out there more messed up than I am (even if they're fictional). Rainbows and sunshine make me angry - that's not life. Watching or reading the sweet and sappy stuff legit turns my stomach. It's not an accurate portrayal of how the world usually works, and all the happily ever afters only make me feel like even more of a pariah. (I say that while I'm sitting here watching You've Got Mail for the thousandth time. There is an exception to most every rule, and that's mine. Thou shall not speak ill of the greatest movie ever made while in my presence.)

When I was in the throes of being The Most Unhinged Person Who Ever Lived (more like when I was out of my effing mind), I didn't care about anyone or anything but myself. And to be fair, I don't think I really cared about me either. There were exactly two people I worried about hurting: my girl and my grandmother. My adorable S didn't do anything to deserve a loser of a mom, and I wanted to die (Not exaggerating here. Not even a little bit.) at the thought of setting her on a path to turn out like me. I couldn't bear the thought. My grandmother loves me unconditionally and has been my biggest fan since forever. I would walk through fire for either one of them and would do anything to protect them both - including protecting them from me. But it stopped there. 

The effects I had on anyone else were totally immaterial to me. I wasn't blind to it - I saw the damage I was doing, but there was a disconnect somewhere between the knowledge and understanding and the part of me that should have been ripped to shreds about it. I felt plenty of guilt, but it always came too late. It was never the kind of guilt that was rooted in sincerity or remorse - it was the kind that was really just because I got caught. I hated the mess I made, and I always promised to clean it up and to never let it happen again. I always did my best to keep that promise - for a little while at least. I minded my manners and behaved myself and did exactly what everyone else wanted me to do until the storm blew over enough for me to gradually slip back into my comfort zone and get back to my old tricks. I'd be really conscientious at first and work really hard at keeping myself in check, but that would soon start to fade along with the guilt. Then the whole sick roller coaster started all over again. Each successive trip down that highway to hell did more damage than the last, and it was progressively harder to dig out from under the debris each time it happened. I never really cared; I wasn't paying any attention to the cumulative stresses I kept putting on my relationships. I knew it would all catch up to me eventually, but I was such a narcissist that I figured I could say some pretty words and cry some pitiful tears and make it all go away. 

The only thing that really ever bothered me about the way I behaved and the way I treated the people who loved me was what would happen if someone found out - As long as people thought I was a good person then it didn't really matter if I was or not, right? I was the Queen Mother Hypocrite Emeritus - or something like that. I could lecture kids about integrity and honesty all day long and keep a straight face the whole time. There was zero reconciliation happening in my head. I was awesome at totally compartmentalizing my emotions (or lack thereof) and very rarely felt conflicted. When I finally hit a wall and checked into the hospital, I was forced to unpack every sin and every dirty little secret I had locked away so tightly. 

The grief and the guilt and the humiliation started pouring out everywhere. The misery hung heavily around my shoulders and forced the air out of my chest. I was buried under an avalanche of sadness and remorse that morphed into hatred and disgust. I wanted to die - not because I was too sad to live but because I was such a sad (as in, pathetic), sorry (as in, waste of space) piece of trash. I didn't deserve to come out on the other side. I didn't deserve to get my life back. I didn't deserve to get my people back. I didn't deserve anything except to be drawn and quartered in a public place. I couldn't look at my own face in the mirror without wanting to put my fist squarely in the middle of it. 

I'm more than making up for the lack of guilt and sincerity I never felt before because I was too self-absorbed to see past the end of my own nose. I hope it's true that I'll come out stronger on the other side, because right now I feel like I'm suffocating. 

xo.