Psychopathic Tales – Righteous Indignation Fantasy

So last week I went to my normal AA meeting on Sunday. Even if I miss meetings during the week I always, always make this meeting . He knows this. In fact his best friend gives me a ride. He is the most recent psychopath that I have removed from my life.   He never goes to this meeting. I knew he would show up eventually. AA or not, I am his drug. He  gets something from me that he can’t get anywhere else. Ever since I told him to get fucked I knew he would show up at this meeting at some point.

He walked in with a smirk that I desperately wanted to knock off of his face. He took a seat. After the meeting a group of us usually go out to breakfast. Of course, he went to breakfast also. Of the 12 fucking seats he could have sat in he chose the one right next to me. Pleasantries were exchanged and then I ignored him the rest of the meal. I handled it correctly, even though it feels like the weaker position. I know that he wants engagement, he seeks an emotional exchange that indicates that I need him back. He wants to “turn me inside out” as he so honestly puts it. His desires aren’t foreign to me, in fact, it’s just the opposite, it’s comfortable, normal and habitual. But it’s a habit I intend to break.

While I handled the situation correctly, I can’t help but fantasize about how I really wanted that meeting to go. So here is a snapshot of the fantasy using my “inside my head voice”…

She sat in her AA meeting when he walked in.  She went there every Sunday and he never went to that meeting, no, not ever.  It had been month since she had finally taken up for herself and told him to fuck off. She still held resentment for his repeated attacks on her sanity, his obvious mission to destroy her. I guess he couldn’t stand the distance, he had never lasted this long without her, without his perfect prey.

As her righteous anger rose so did she. Up and out of her seat and with a silent authority she stood, extended her arm and pointed right at him. As his  eyes locked into recognition with her demand of attention she motioned her command that he follow her to the door.

Two steps out the door and out of the presence of any witnesses he opened his mouth to speak…

BAM…

A left hook directly to his chin.

Whatever he had to say, whatever dispute he offered was shut down in a bloody second. All he could do was stand there, speechless…for the first time.

“I can’t keep you from coming here, but I can make it just as uncomfortable for you as it is for me.”

 

 

Fractured

Today I feel a bit fractured and about 16 years old. Part of my mental illness includes periods of dissociation. It used to scare me at first but now I know it’s just a part of me. The feelings I have are what I call a mixed episode, which means that I am having both manic and depressive symptoms at the same time. Kinda fucked up huh? I’ve learned  to adjust. I can work when I’m like this because the mania keeps my depression from forcing my body onto the couch while I watch re-run after re-run of House. I have all 8 seasons completely memorized!!

The best part of mixed episodes I can write the best dialog for the story I am currently writing. It’s like I get all the benefit of the creative depression with the actual energy to write it down. I hate when I am laying on the couch, depressed as hell and I can just see my characters interacting and talking and having the greatest experience, and I want to write it down, I really do, but the effort to get a pen and paper seem so overwhelming so I just lay there and forget.

So I’m learning to appreciate my mood disorder and use each mood for a useful purpose. However, feeling fragmented is hard. Right now the age thing is making dating this new guy particularly difficult. I sit with him on the couch feeling like a kid with an old man but I know logically that he is age appropriate. I like him but he’s going want sex eventually and unless I can get out of the dimension I’m not going to be able to. I feel like I should warn him about what he is getting into with me but that seems dramatic. I’m not like this all the time and I function fairly well. Maybe I just want to fall apart to see if he is the type of guy who will rescue me. Huh? I may have hit the nail square on the head. I have this deep, unhealthy need to be rescued, and I think maybe I am testing the waters to see if he is the one who will save me. I’ll have to spend some time exploring that because I think the key to me getting out of this fractured state of mind lies in resolving the reoccurring theme of my life of wanting to be saved.

Processing Death

I walked into a fellow attorney’s office one morning to drop off a file from a client I had just referred to him.  He looked a little perplexed and plopped the front page of the local newspaper on his desk.

“Did you see the paper this morning? Your client is dead. Suicide by cop.”

I felt like I was sucked into a vacuum. Emotions were spinning around me but my soul felt empty. I didn’t know the proper response then and I still don’t now.

36 hours before that moment I had spent 3 hours helping this woman fill out paperwork to obtain a domestic violence restraining order. 12 hours later the restraining order was granted. She never picked it up from the court though. I often wonder if she even knew that it had been granted. Instead, that evening she loaded up her dogs into her SUV, loaded a .357 magnum, called her husband and said that she was bringing him the dogs. There must have been something strange about that conversation because by the time she made the 20 minute drive to his house there was a police barricade set up. She slammed her SUV into one of the parked police vehicles. When she got out of the car she was swinging the .357 around and speaking incoherently. I’m not usually a real supporter of how police handle these type of situations but it sounded like they really did all they could to try to talk her down but after a few minutes she leveled the gun at one of cops and they discharged 22 rounds hitting her 9 times, fatally wounding her.  She was pronounced dead at the scene.

Other than the 3 hours I spent with her completing paperwork, I didn’t know this woman. I knew she was smart, she was educated, she had a master’s degree and was an RN at the local hospital.  She seemed like a bit of a train wreck at the time but nothing out of the ordinary considering the circumstances under which we were meeting. Nothing indicated to me that she was suicidal.

This happened almost 3 years ago and I still don’t know how to feel about it, but I think of her. I still feel stuck in that vacuum with emotions flying around but emptiness in my soul. I don’t feel guilty, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t see anything to indicate she was suicidal or else I would have gotten her mental health treatment. I don’t feel loss since I didn’t know her for more than 3 hours.  In addition to not knowing what to feel, it seems selfish for me to feel anything at all, it feels  self-indulgent to have any emotion around the situation. I never felt the right to say, “I’m upset, I’m feeling grief.” To say those things makes me feel like I want to make her death about me and have a pity party for myself.

Yet I still think of her and wonder what I could have done differently. I think I need to allow myself to grieve.  I’m learning through working my 4th step in AA that we all have unpleasant feelings and that its ok to experience them, that it’s not selfish to have them but that we do need to give up our sense of control about the emotions and go to our higher power (mine in Buddha) and ask that we be freed from the pain that we are carrying. We need to see our part in continuing the cycle of our pain, admit our part and let our higher power do the rest.

He made me hate my father…

…which is reason #267 that I left EX2.

EX2 was an extremely narcissistic and psychopathic man. He needed to establish his dominance and to do that he needed the other male figure in my life, my father, to be out of my life.

It was all quite primal and base once you extract the righteous, emotional outrage and look at it rationally . Being a psychopath, EX2 had a very alpha male personality. Alpha males tend to be loners, sharing is not a quality they behold so they quickly establish their territory, isolated their chattel, and protect what is theirs from any threat, real or imagined. High anxiety, paranoia, adherence to the rules of “in group/out group” and gestures of dominance highlight their personality.

I was nothing more than a possession to EX2. I was chattel. He needed to consume me; to be the center of my universe; to own me. And own me he did.  And during the time that he owned me he exploited every resource I had available and left me as an empty shell. Until I met EX2, my father was the only strong male figure that I had a bond with. This bond was a threat to EX2′s dominance because my father had the ability to influence me. A difference of opinion was a threat to EX2, sometimes he even elevated it to an intent to humiliate him.  Ex2 allowed me into his group but he desperately needed me to sever ties with my group because he saw them as outsiders and they were not allowed.

I loved my father, I was dedicated to my father, I was attached to my father. EX2 picked up on my devotion to my father very early in our relationship.  I ran interference between my narcissistic mother and my dear father. If he needed something I was there, if he had a problem I was there, if he was sick, I was there. Honestly, my father can be a bit needy, my whole family can be awful needy in general. It can be draining at times and EX2 capitalized on my periods of exhaustion to drive me away from my father.

It started out slow, like most abuse does. He began to  commiserate with me about the overwhelming needs of my family. I admit, it felt good to have someone understand. His commiseration began to escalate into moral outrage, always on my behalf, and again, it felt good. I always harbored a certain resentment toward my family for needing so much. Most of the time I enjoyed being needed my family and I really loved my father.

The commiseration turned ugly. It became this evil game where Ex2 would complain about my father being too needy. He would demand that I understand how mad my father had made him. He would remind me of all the times that I had been mad at my dad. Somehow he got me to commiserate with him. Next he began to shame me any time I helped my father. He became hostile any time I spoke of my father. Then he launched a campaign against my father. Finally, he convinced me that my life would be easier without expending my energy on my father.

“You shouldn’t be spending your energy on your crazy father, you need to save your energy for me” he exclaimed.

Yep, that’s right, he plainly said that and I didn’t even object. I was broken by that time. People wonder why I would stay with such a man but as the saying goes, “if you boil a frog slow enough…” Well he boiled me just slow enough that by the end of our marriage I was barely speaking to my father and hadn’t seen him for years.

I hated my father for many reasons, yet for the years that followed my separation from EX2 I laid on my couch drugged and incoherent, and  my father raised my son. My son graduates high school this year and he is an amazing kid and it because my father raised him well.  My father has never asked for an apology or a show of gratitude in return. Somehow I think he just knows that I had fallen under that control of a man whose sole goal was to isolate me, posses me, and destroy me.

I don’t hate my father anymore, in fact I often worry about the reality of him dying and all the time I missed with him but I am grateful that I have been allowed to reconcile with my father and love him again.

I’m 2 years old

February 14, 2012  I woke up sober. My sobriety wasn’t by intention or design and it certainly didn’t come from desire. Instead it was  a combination of a special person and being broke. Being broke tends to sober a person up or launch them into a new career of theft and prostitution, neither of which seemed like something I could do or be very good at.

Before my broke-dom phase I don’t think I was ever sober longer than 5 days and that was always under duress by either an improperly motivated drug dealer taking his sweet time finding me what I needed or EX2 threatening to leave me if I didn’t quit using and I would always make some fervent but fleeting attempt to abstain.

I ran out of most of my money in July 2011 but I moved in with a guy, we call him the Bore,  who was a complete recluse and a bit agoraphobic and he let me use his ATM card to buy groceries and pay bills so I was able to take some money out here and there to feed my habit. At first the Bore didn’t care as long as the bills were paid. After several months of babysitting me while I was in a soma coma, peeing the bed, passing out and drowning in the bathtub and watching his saving dwindle he told me to move out.

I wasn’t functional enough to get any type of real job and  I had let my State Bar license lapse so I used my impressive looking credentials and lying lawyer skills to convince a church that was trying to start up an outreach program for people who suffer from homelessness to hire me to organize the project and in return they gave me $700 a month and let me live in the old nursery that was no longer being used. It took about 3 months before busting lines and popping pills in the church nursery was disfavored by the pastor and I was asked to leave.

I begged the Bore to let me come back home and he said yes under two conditions:  (1)I didn’t have to stay sober but I couldn’t get high there and (2) none of his money could be used for drugs. These “rules” were the perfect motivators for me.  I hated the thought of being away from him (I really did love him very much) and I hated the thought of telling him that I wouldn’t be home that night because I wanted to get high and I had no money without him. So I laid in bed all day, everyday, feeling sorry for myself and thinking of  schemes to get money or drugs.

On February 14, 2011 the Bore asked me “When was the last time you got high? It seems like it’s been awhile.”

I though about it for a while and realized that it had been at least a week. He told me that he was really proud of me. My heart melted. No one ever told me that they were proud of me before. So from that point on, every Wednesday that I stayed sober he told me that he was proud of me and gave me a big hug. It was a special thing that I could count on each week and that belonged to only me.

I was willing to stay sober day after day because I looked forward to that feeling of him being proud of me and those few moments of attention and affection that belonged to only me.

And now on February 14, 2014 I celebrated 2 years of sobriety. This year instead of the Bore telling me he was proud of me, my father came to the meeting to watch me get my 2 year chip and told me that he was proud of me.

What is a Psychopath?

Often in my writing I may refer to a person as a psychopath. I feel it’s important to let everyone know what I mean by this. So many times people use the term psychopath in the colloquial sense to refer to anyone that displeases them, or acts like a selfish jerk. When I use the term psychopath I am not using it this way, instead  I am referring to a person who shows a specific set of personality traits. While there is no consensus in the field of psychology about what a psychopath is or if it is even an appropriate diagnosis, the Psychopathy Checklist is widely used to evaluate individuals that may be psychopathic. The Psychopathy Checklist was developed by  Dr. Hare who is  considered one of the world’s foremost experts in the area of psychopathy.

The Psychopathy Checklist consists of 20 items. Each item is scored on a scale of 0-1-2, with 0 indicating that the trait is not present, and 2 indicating that the trait is very present. Special training is required to use this measure for diagnostic purposes, so don’t diagnose you husband as a psychopath during your next fight, run to the courthouse and file for divorce.

Having said all that here’s the checklist:

  • glib and superficial charm
  • grandiosity
  • need for stimulation
  • pathological lying
  • cunning and manipulating
  • lack of remorse callousness
  • poor behavior controls
  • impulsiveness
  • irresponsibility
  • denial parasitic lifestyle
  • sexual promiscuity
  • early behavior problems
  • early behavior problems
  • lack of realistic long-term goals
  • failure to accept responsibility for own actions
  • many short-term marital relationships
  • juvenile delinquencies
  • revocation of conditional release
  • criminal versatility

An estimated 1% of the United States population qualifies as a psychopath and not all of them are criminals. Remember all serial killers are psychopaths but not all psychopaths are serial killers. There are plenty of psychopaths in the workplace, in church, on the bus and even walking down the street.

The best of Hooker/Junkie/Pimp Quotes- FAILED drug test excuses

I lifted this from a court file, and just couldn’t stop laughing…

Dumbass Defendant: I’m really scared that I am going to test dirty for marijuana.

Attorney: Why is that?

Dumbass Defendant: Because my doctor prescribed a poppy seed bagel diet so that I can lose weight.

Attorney: Ummm, wrong drug, wrong excuse moron.

Do We Really Hate That Much?

When I was growing up my daddy was a cop. As a child I was told that my father’s job was to put dirt bags in jail. These criminals were dangerous and had no conscience or remorse. These criminals were waiting to hurt me, everyone I loved, and other innocent people. This is what I knew; my father drove around in a patrol car, risking his life to protect innocents. He would leave us, he would put his protection of me on hold and leave to protect others. Needless to say I feared these criminals. They could hurt me at anytime when my daddy was gone and they could take my daddy’s life and leave me vulnerable to danger. So I learned to hate them. I was scared and so hated. I hated and so I wanted them to suffer

Starting around 5 years old I began to fantasize about shooting child molesters in the knee caps and elbow and leaving them in the desert to die. When Pelican Bay opened in 1989 I rejoiced. I was 14 years old and I took comfort in knowing that these despicable criminals were locked away. I enjoyed knowing that they would have zero human contact. Why should they have contact with their prey? All these people do sit and contemplate how to make people like me suffer. They put my daddy’s life at risk because they are evil.

 Fast forward 20 years…I’m sitting in the visiting area, on a level 4 yard at Folsom State Prison. I am surrounded by about 50 inmates, most serving life sentences, all criminals that I had been taught to fear and learned to hate. But my criminal, my soul mate was a low level thief with a life-long drug problem.

I had known my soul mate since I was 14 years old. He was the first boy I kissed, my first love. At 28 years old I had know this man half of my life. We had officially broken up when I was 19 years old. He was barely coherent and slightly psychotic in those days from week long runs. I was a firefighter. He sat me down in a moment of clarity and told me that I was smart and pretty and I could actually BE something, BUT, if I stayed with him, eventually I would just become a useless drug addict like him. He said he couldn’t live with me wasting my potential for him. He couldn’t ruin my life. He sent me away. And he did it for my own good. And here he came out, in prison blues to a visiting area. I would learn that the contact visits we enjoyed were a luxury among the prisons. And as I sat in that room, talking to my friend I saw humanity in that prison. As I looked around I saw men enjoying popcorn, ice cream and chicken wings from over priced vending machine. I saw kids coloring pictures and presenting them to their daddies with hope and having that hope fulfilled with a prideful smile from their daddies. I saw humanity in that room and immediately it was taken away. I was hit with inhumanity as I was quickly surrounded by correctional officers asking my soul mate to “come with them.” He was returned to me about 5 minutes later and I was told not to show so much affection. What are they talking about? I think I had my hand on your knee or was holding your hand, I thought that was allowed? He laughed and said, “they say that they have you on video giving me a hand job.”

 “WHAT THE FUCK?” I was outraged, humiliated and SCARED. For the first time in my life I feared the cops more than the criminals. I realized their power. They could say or do anything and the truth didn’t matter. But they didn’t remove me or even talk to me directly. Allegedly, I had just committed a crime, they stated they had the recording of me doing it, yet I just needed to mind my manners and I could stay. That’s not logical.

 “Which of those guards did you piss of this morning?” I joked

 “Probably all of them, why?”

 “Because they are using my humiliation to get even. And I know you. Thanks smart-ass.”

 I was outraged but there wasn’t shit I could do about it but joke about it. In fact, any effort I could make to defend myself would make it worse. So I sucked it up, got through the visit, got through the snickering and whispering from the officers as I left the premises. And I went back home. Home to my kids, home to my husband, home to the middle of my first year of law school and home to my new commitment to become a public defender.

 I became that public defender and my soul mate became a lifetime guest of various penal institutions for very predictable and very boring crimes associated with drug addiction. As I write this he is sitting in solitary confinement in prison. His crime is irrelevant. His punishment extreme. The last time we spoke was a year ago when he committed the crime of disobeying a correctional officer and sneaking to a phone instead of the shower to hear my voice, any familiar voice. Our last contact was a letter 6 months ago. I don’t know how he is doing, but I imagine it isn’t well. I wonder each day how being locked-up without human contact has destroyed his mind, I wonder if that box has destroyed my soul mate. When I was young I hated because I was scared. But I was young and ignorant. Ignorant of the suffering a human can be subjected to. Ignorant that losing human contact completely can literally makes you insane. I do know this, you don’t have to love an inmate to want them not to suffer this way, you just don’t have to hate. Ignorance and fear caused me to hate and hate made me endorse the destruction incarcerated individuals mind at all costs. Whatever your thoughts on punishment I implore you, is inducing extreme mental illness by continuous solitary confinement ever the proper punishment? Because that type of hate is worse than any crime.

Ghetto Gems – How to Raise a Pimp

My Nubian Prince:  My grandpa always told me “a hustle ain’t guaranteed unless you gotta  ho-bitch”

Translation:  drug deals don’t always work out but you can always make one of your prostitutes sell a piece of ass.

Now if you can ignore  the obvious disregard for women in this statement then maybe you can consider why our youth are leading criminal lives in high numbers. It is because they are being taught this lifestyle from their families. All parents admire success, and want successful kids but success looks different depending on where you come from.  A mainstream family’s version of success may include a good job, high pay, or owning your own business, or follow in mom or dad’s footsteps.  In the ghetto success may mean that you are a good drug dealer, a pimp with several prostitutes that make you money,  a high-ranking member of a gang, or taking over the family chop shop.  Success looks different depending on where you come from.

No matter what success looks like, all parents give their children advice on how to get ahead. Mainstream parents advice their children to get good grades in school, get involved in sports, get a higher education. Parents in the ghetto give advice like the statement above.  I am a transplant from mainstream to the ghetto and I have been making observations instead of judging.  Children grow up seeing, watching, and eventually engaging in the behaviors that seem to give them the most success in their environment. So the next time you sit and wonder why don’t these people know any better, consider that they don’t in fact know any different than to follow the path their parent showed them.  Maybe people don’t have as much control over the path they have been given.