Do not lie to me.

For one thing, I am simply so much better at it than you that I observe most people in their lies the way a parent observes their toddler’s first attempts at swimming.  It’s very cute, but there’s still a good possibility you’ll drown doing it.

Second, dishonesty simply isn’t “cool.”  Do I lie?  Yes, of course I do.  Typically to protect someone or something.  As a salesperson, I’ve had to bend the truth enough to be untruthful (but not explicitly lying, in my opinion) in order to protect the company or industry.  I’ve told lies to protect coworkers from reprisals when I knew they made a simple mistake they would not be making again.  I lied to protect my step-sister when we were kids (she was more outwardly disobedient than I was).  I lie to protect myself and my own interests, but not that often.  Really.  Maybe I’m so biased I cannot see my lies (and I tell them enough they become true, of course), but I consider myself to be a very honest and upfront person.  I find it’s actually a very useful way of living, and people are somehow made vulnerable when you explain things to them openly.  I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done, so I don’t mind being honest, so long as the statue of limitations has run out.  I tell strangers in bars that I have “limited empathy” or “empathy issues,” and if they piece it together, they’ll ask if I’ve got some antisocial tendencies.  I’ve told my fiance that I simply do not know how other people feel, and that I’m trying to figure it out, I’m just about 25 years behind on that lesson.  My bartenders know who I am and what I’m about.  They know I have no problem telling others exactly what I think and I have no problem correcting them for their misdeeds, whatever they may be (like taking up three seats worth of space at a crowded bar when you’re not even that fat).  My bartenders know that I figure I’m antisocial and I think that gives me some leeway.  If I tell you upfront who I am and what I do, can you really be that surprised when I do those things?  No.  If you’re caught in the way, that’s your own fault.

Point is, I’m honest.  People appreciate my candor (they tell me this).  My old coworkers, as much as I apparently intimidated them (said my bitch general manager from whom I spent all nine hours each day hiding), they all knew, every time, what I would say, how I would react, etc., or else I’d surprise them by being nicer than expected.  Either way, no one was offended, and from what they told me, they appreciated that much more than our other coworker Tanya’s constant roller-coaster ride of friendship: one day you’re BFFs, the next she pretends you do not exist and tries to “accidentally” body slam you (by the way, I’m sure you’ve figured this or I’ve said it, but I change names here, and “Tanya,” I’ve always believed [pronounced like “Can-yuh”, not Con-yuh], is THE. MOST. WHITE. TRASH. NAME. EVER., so make what you will of my former coworker).  One’s home is supposed to be clean, so when the sewer backs up and your house smells like shit, you complain about it and hate it and scream and cry.  But people who work at water treatment plants don’t get upset that the workplace smells like shit: it’s supposed to; if the plant didn’t smell like shit, the rest of the world would.  We all take our offense in response to the situation.

But as honest as I am, I am a very, very good liar.  Maybe it’s because I know what the truth looks and sounds like so well that I feel so comfortable adapting those behaviors to the lie.  I’ve been lied to a lot, mostly by my father.  I’ve always been able to see through it, but I don’t think he is as adaptable as me, as much as I feel we carry the burden of the same affliction (gift?).  I went to private schools my whole life, so I understand how to develop and make a point, and how to debate others’ points in relation to mine.  He’s very intelligent, yes, but he never learned those critical skills, or at least never learned how to use them as an adult on topics such as “No, I did not burn down that house,” and “No, I did not forge your name on those documents,” and “No, I did not just color a clear rhinestone in with a blue sharpie and call it a sapphire.” Or maybe he is just so arrogant he doesn’t believe he’ll ever be discovered, and despite the wealth of evidence for his (literal) crimes, he thinks if he just keeps denying it, it will go away.  But if you don’t answer the questions, the questions will continue to be asked.  And everyone thinks it’s strange that for 25 years, you’ve been adding no additional point or information in your favor–just a “nu uh!”, Dad.  Yes, dad, I’m talking to you.  Sigh.

So that gets me to today.

Well, last week is when it started.  My mother-in-law gave a me a wonderful gift: a leather briefcase.  It’s beautiful and practical.  I really do like it.  The pockets are the perfect size, the organization of said pockets is great, and I take those things verrrrrry seriously.  Let me point out here that I have a lot of experience with leather, both new and vintage, and all of my designer handbags were scored on eBay.  I have ZERO problem with a vintage leather bag being handed down to me from a relative–that’s part of why I love leather in the first place: it’s the kind of material that many generations get to experience, and I think a lot of people are like that.  My sister’s birthday was a few months back, and being strapped for cash, but knowing she’s always wanted cowboy boots, I gave her my old pair, which still look great.  She was pleased as punch and, I think like most people who understand leather goods, felt no offense that the boots were “used,” which in this arena, can actually increase an object’s value.

When I first opened it, it had that smell.  That old leather smell.  If you know it, you know it.  Your memory for scent is probably more reliable than any other form of memory.  I excitedly asked my fiance (MIL was not present) if it was vintage.  He gave me an emphatic “no” and insisted it was just really, really expensive because the leather was so nice it felt vintage from the get-go (for reference, I have new leather bags that started that soft, and they were about $450, but I digress).  I looked it over, not to be critical, but to appreciate my new bag.  I enjoy trying to figure out where the leather good came from, whenever I see used leather.  I saw scuff marks on the feet, and the finish on the brass was wearing off some.  Also, if you look closely, there’s a little bit of dust in certain little crannies, a few minor scratches over the body, and the suede shoulder strap has a small amount of pilling.  I am not saying these are flaws or undesirable qualities in any way, simply that they exist and it seems this is a vintage piece, and I do not give even 1/36 of a flying fuck how old it is, unless it has some historic provenance, and Mary Tod wore it or something, in which case I would be over the moon with excitement.

I just want my fiance and MIL to be honest with me.

When I first went to use it, I pulled the shoulder strap out and tried to clasp it to the bag.  The clasps were so old that the metal cracked, the springs fell out, and now I need to replace the clasps. No problem, that happens on old leather stuff, and is another reason why leather is awesome: it outlasts metal, bitches.  So this morning, I go to use my bag for the first time (it still has a handle).  I tell fiance that I have to take the strap to a luggage repair place and he asks why.  I told him because the metal was so old, the clasps broke.  He insisted it was not really old (maybe those scuff marks got there because it was so expensive that it sat in the store for so long that all of the constant trying-ons scuffed it some [but, he also insisted that it was so expensive it lived in a case, and I don’t know where they will let you handle cased goods so often they become worn…]).  I said, “yes it is! I don’t care, just don’t lie to me!”  He insisted I was wrong.

So I said, “Fine, if it’s new and that expensive, it will have a warranty.  Tell your mother to call the store where she bought it and give me a return authorization.”  If Coach can do free repairs (and, in my friend’s case, offer 40% off a new purchase since the old one was irreparable), then certainly this mystery brand that lived in a case and was passed up for years and years because of its price can do so as well.

I googled the manufacturer.  I couldn’t find anything to suggest that this bag was made by a company currently in business.

Something tells me that I’ll have to take it to a regular luggage repair shop.  That is fine with me.  So totally fine with me.  Just please don’t lie to me.  I can see through it like a window.

My whole life, my grandmother has always bought me, my siblings, and my cousins (and now their kids) pajamas for Christmas.  One year, she got me a blanket because I was living in a very cold climate, but the next year she went back to PJs.  Last year, I received no gift from my grandmother, who had, until then, been very reliable with Christmas gifts.  I opened up the package from my father.  Well, whaddayaknow…. It’s pajamas!!! My father has never gotten me pajamas.  His gifts are usually books, or music (CDs, instruments, accessories for said instruments, etc.), or gift cards to places that sell books and music, and he does this because those are the things that he knows about and understands.  Those are the kinds of things that he likes.  He’s never bought me clothing, and his few attempts at buying me jewelry (I mentioned the phony sapphire above, but there’s another  story, too, that I can’t go into here) have been pretty disastrous.  I had opened the gift over a trash can at work so I could immediately discard the wrapping.  I was so pissed about the pajamas, I just threw them into the trash as well.  Later, a coworker got mad at me because I could have donated them to Goodwill.  Oh well.

I confronted him about it a few weeks ago.  He responded with silence and told me that the kids at the correctional place he’s tutoring at have the “real,” problems.  What he doesn’t understand as that for me there is no problem.  My life is fine.  I do not, however, condone lying, and I opt not to have liars in my life.  That is part of why my life is not that problematic in the first place.  The greater the distance at which I keep the liars, the better I fare.

So I wish my fiance would just fucking admit it.  Maybe his mom lied to him and he’s trying to protect her.  He’s a guy, he doesn’t know shit about bags.  I, on the other hand, get all my fancy bags on eBay, so, yeah, I know a thing or two about used bags, and I obviously have no problem using one.  Otherwise, I’d buy them all new.  But frankly, unless it’s a shoe, leather goods are actually best used. It’s a beautiful bag and I love it.

Just tell me the truth so I can love you, too.

Oh, and do NOT get me started on her impatience regarding my “thank you” for the bag.  I sent a thank-you card, which takes some time to both be written, and then delivered through USPS (and of course, traveling home, to where I keep my stationary, took a day as well). Is it as fast as a text message?  No, it’s not.  But a “thank you” text?  Are you fucking kidding me?  How sleazy! Who would not prefer to wait a few extra days for a handwritten, fuschia card with a gold hedgehog and confetti stars and little green waves on the envelope and a cute drawing of a puppy paw?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Two things (at least)

1) For every girl who is sexually active but uses zero form of birth control (pulling out doesn’t count as birth control, but it’s what I use), seeing that ever so slight shade of pink on the toilet paper when she first starts her period is the most wonderful sensation ever.

2) I don’t think I want to cheat on my boyfriend.  Let me tell you a story:

A couple of weeks ago I went to the bar and noticed another man when he sat down a few seats over.  He was huge and hunky (he’s a fucking fireman–just kill me now).  He had a goatee.  Dark hair.  Full lips.  Strong jaw.  Big hands.  Oh my god, his hands…  He was probably the most attractive piece of man meat I had seen in a very, very long time.  We started to talk.  We got along.  I don’t remember what we talked about, but I never mentioned my boyfriend.  He walked me to my car.  We talked some more then said, in a very nice way, “well, then let me get your phone number and we’ll meet up again.”  I told him I didn’t have a phone number to give out.  He looked confused, then said “okay,” and was polite and wished me a good night.

As I drove away, I noticed that, for the first time since meeting my fiance, I wanted to sleep with someone else.  Sure, I’ve felt the urge to turn a trick, but this time, it was a specific person, and it was because I wanted *him* to stick *his* dick in me and fuck the living shit out of me.  It wasn’t about money or games or power.  It was about being so physically attracted to another man that I wanted him to tear me to pieces.  It wasn’t me looking for an experience that I could have with pretty much any random stranger to be fulfilled, it was me wanting to have sex with one particular man who is not my fiance.

I saw him a few days later again.  This time, most of the seats were taken, and my purse occupied the seat next to mine (yes, I do it on purpose so I decide who sits there).  Fireman looked around for a place to sit, and I said, “you can sit here if you want, you know,” and he set his jacket on the chair, ordered a beer, and then went to the bathroom.  I had been telling my bartender about this guy not a moment before he walked in, and that I had had those… urges for him, so I told him that I had to leave before fireman came back.  He said, “well then, why the hell did you invite him to sit next to you?”  Damnit.  Ya got me.

I saw him last night.  The bar was mostly empty (it’s small).  He sat at the other end with some nerdy guys and they talked politics.  I heard him ask another guy, “are you some kind of conspiracy theorist?”  That made me like him more.  We made eye contact once, and I immediately looked away.  Then, he was watching me first, then he caught my eye, and he had his glass up and made a gesture to say “hello.”  When the bar closed, I went to the bathroom first, while he and the conspiracy theorists went outside and continued their discussion in the parking lot.  When I came out, I walked past them to my car, and he waved and said goodnight.  Of course I smiled flirtatiously and said goodnight.

I then went home and fantasized about him in a myriad of ways.  First, we just talk for a while outside of his car.  He’s so sweet, and I’ve been so fickle, so I know I have to take the lead, and I just open up the door and climb into the back seat and he follows me.  I imagine we start kissing, he runs his hands over me, slides them up my skirt, pulls my cosabella boyshorts aside and starts to finger me.  I pull his dick out and I find–to my utter and extreme delight–that he is uncircumcised and huge.  I go crazy, and I jump on him, taking his cock into my mouth and furiously sucking up and down while he fingers me with two fingers until I squirt all over his leather seats.  When I cum it turns him on so much that he shoots into my mouth and I swallow the whole thing in one gulp, but of course I still squeeze his dick until I get every drop onto my tongue and down my throat.  Of course we have to end it there because I have a boyfriend and sex would be too much.

Then, in the next fantasy, that whole idea goes out the window.  We are at his place.  I am on the couch, my legs spread open off the edge, and he’s on his knees, fucking me at the edge of the couch.  His dick goes so deep and hard and hits me in that magic spot and I cum and I squirt all over him.  He fucks me for a few more minutes just to watch me squirm, then decides he wants to cum in my mouth.  He stands up, and I’m still sitting on the couch.  He shoves his cock in my mouth, grabbing my head with both hands and skull fucking me.  I get so turned on I have to rub my clit while I take him down my throat.  Once he starts to cum and grunt and shoot delicious juice into my mouth, I cum too in excitement.  I don’t know what happens after that.

The third scenario was the one I had while my boyfriend was in bed next to me.  This time, we’re both in his car, in the front seats with the console between us, and we’re listening to music for a while and eventually we discuss our mutual attraction, and my unfortunate attachment.  This time, I compromise by saying I can only play with myself, but he can watch.  Of course, he takes out that giant uncut cock to pleasure himself, but I still can’t help myself.  I start sucking his dick and I stick my pussy in the air and grab his hand and slide his fingers into me.  He finger fucks me while he’s in my mouth and as soon as I begin to taste his cum, I squirt on his hand and it splashes on the seat and drips down my legs.  Or course I milk him for all he’s worth.

I had these thoughts in my head all day.  This morning I sucked my fiance’s dick because I just wanted Fireman’s cock in my mouth so much.  Then I made my fiance fuck me–hard–and I imagined Fireman’s dick in my pussy and hands on my throat.  But the whole time, I knew it was my fiance fucking me, and it was great.  He did an awesome job.  [Editorial note: he’s been much better at the oral sex lately, but I am actually on my period right now, and I don’t really expect anyone to chow down at that time.]

Tonight I decided I wanted to see Fireman again.  I drove through the parking lot to see if his car was there already.  It was.  When I walked in, he was sitting next to my favorite seat (the seat I was in the night before, of course). with another woman.  I was so relieved.  I was hoping he was on a date, maybe setting a boundary, but whatever the case, it would be the perfect time to mention my boyfriend.  Of course, he said hello when I sat down.  I was friendly about it, but I ended it immediately to ask the bartender about what was on tap.  I read a book for a few minutes, then his lady friend started talking to me.  I was listening to their conversation some, and I realized it wasn’t a date; they were friends and she was actually obsessed with another man at the time.  Fireman got up to go to the bathroom and Kendra almost immediately introduced herself and started talking to me.  It was almost as if (and this could just be the narcissist in me) Fireman had said something about me before I arrived (or maybe whispered it while I was reading or ordering), and she was trying to access my availability for her friend.  I’ve done things like that before; it was a possibility.  While he was away, I mentioned my boyfriend.  When he came back, neither she nor I brought it up.

Even though I didn’t mention it, it got to a point where I was pretty sure I didn’t need to if it wasn’t natural to the thread of the conversation.  As I heard him talk more about himself and his life, I discovered he was a person.  He has feelings.  He’s not just the meat machine I thought I was looking for.  If I brought him into my world, I would destroy him.  I saw his destruction.  I saw him weak, and I saw him with that “why doesn’t she love me?” face.  I hate that face.  I saw that he would try to win my affection, and I saw that he would drain me.  I absolutely cannot stand the thought of another person needing me to give them emotions.

I’ve already agreed to ride this ride because it agrees with me.  Even if Fireman is a hunka-hunka burnin’ love, I don’t think there’s any amount of uncircumcised dick (my faaaaaaavorite) that could make me try to care about a different human being than the one I’m with.  I made my decision a long time ago (the night we met, actually).  I’m just sick of having to get to know another person’s emotions, and I don’t want to have to learn about yet another’s.  That’s not to say that I don’t, in some way, enjoy the challenges that my fiance poses: I know that I need to be better, and he helps me with that.  He helps me be more tolerant.  It’s work, but I’ve always enjoyed challenges, and I truly believe that I am capable of anything.

And of course, I thought about what would happen if my fiance found out.  I imagine it would be come out in a situation where my fiance and I went to the bar together, and Fireman sees us, hurt from my fucking his lights out then abandoning him for my fiance, and here we were together, all over one another like we usually are (I really only know how to express myself physically, so I show him my love with constant touching and kissing–I very rarely use words).  I imagine Fireman makes some kind of smart comment, not fully giving away the truth, and of course, Fiance doesn’t know any better, so he sticks up for himself (and me), but by the end of the night, it won’t sit right with him.  We’ll go home and he’ll know it.  He’ll get angry.  He’ll throw things, grab me, and slam doors.  He’ll sleep in the guest bedroom.  The next day he won’t talk to me.  The second day he’ll tell me to leave.  And then it will all be over.  I’ll have to start all over from scratch.  Do you know how hard it is for me to find someone I agree with?  And then, to find someone I agree with for more than a few months?  I’m getting too old for this game.

Tonight, Kendra, Fireman, and I were all talking about the virtues of my hometown versus our current town.  I actually prefer the new place, but no one can believe that this little shithole has more to offer me than a famous city.  The bartender (who knew that I almost lost my shit with this guy before) loudly interjected that I “came here to settle down.”  It’s true.  I’ve decided on this future: husband, kids, in-laws (I love my in-laws; my mother-in-law is a super sweet, generous chef, and my father-in-law is a scientist and we drink bourbon and discuss everything from cosmology to the psychology of feral cats).  The life I have is the life I want. This is what I have always wanted.  I have always wanted to be on a team of two.  We’ll have allies, for sure, but I’ve always wanted to share my awesomeness with someone else, and to have another person teach me what love means.  As much as my mother didn’t turn out a sociopath (she’s actually very empathic towards a lot of people, especially strangers), she’s always been a tit-for-tat kind of person.  I was a fat kid, so if I ever wanted something, I would have to lose weight to earn it.  She wouldn’t buy me a car (not that I really thought she had to, I was fine with public transit as it was all I knew and I’m kind of a hippie), until I enrolled in her favorite college (and of course, it took her three years to provide her end of the bargain that she offered [mind you, I paid for college 100% out of my own funds–savings bond left by a relative, straight work, and flatbacking–except for one small loan for which we co-signed to help build my credit, but which I had paid back completely within one year].  My fiance’s family doesn’t make me write out a payment plan on loans they give us.  They don’t even give us “loans”.  They just give us money when they know we’re struggling.  They don’t expect us to pay it back, but I recently got a new job that would allow me to pay them back 200% in 12 months if I choose (it’s a slow start kind of position, but “residuals” is a beautiful word).  They haven’t asked for that, not at all, not even moderately implied, but I imagine that’s what I would do for them when I was able.  Perhaps I will simply put the money into a savings account of some kind (whatever has the best return) to allow for my in-laws to be well cared for when they are too old to care for themselves (whether we build an in-law unit or set them up someplace swanky).  But everything my mom has loaned me, I have paid back according to her terms, which are always in the short term.

I saw the future.  I couldn’t stand to lose this one, and I couldn’t stand to give a shit about the other.  I have it really good where I am.  He’s on his way home now, and when he gets here, I’m going to shove my face into his chest hair.

“I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.”

I like to joke a lot and say extremely narcissistic things to people, or in a crowd, and people think it’s funny, because I don’t think they could believe I really feel that way.  The thing is, I believe everything I’m saying, but I know it’s fucked up.  I don’t think I’m wrong for how I feel, and I can justify the most horrifying of actions, but I know I’m different, and I know I’m not normal, and certainly not what I’d call right.  Of course, I can turn that to my benefit because it makes me special.  But yes, I still know right from wrong, and I know that the behavior I poke fun at is not acceptable in society, and I try to fit in.  We watched Wreck-It Ralph the other night.  It was better than I was expecting (only because my boyfriend didn’t explain that it starred John C Reilly and Jane Lynch), and I actually found it a little bit uplifting.

I have always wanted to get married.  The thought of someone promising to love me forever has always excited me, and every time I get into a new relationship, from the very beginning I ask, “Could this be it?”  I’ve had a lot of men fall in love with me, at least that’s what they said, over and over, while I insisted they did not.  A few weeks ago, my fiance pulled me close to him on the couch and put his arm around me.  All of a fucking sudden it hit me: he did that because it felt good to him to hold me, just like when it felt good to me to cuddle with him.  It was the first time I had ever noticed that in the two decades I have been slutting around this planet.  I think that may have had a reason it was so hard to believe anyone loved me (that, and like, the abuse).  But you know, I always found “proof” they didn’t love me, usually the fact that at some point, they tried to break up with me (or succeeded and we reunited).  Once that happened, no matter when in the relationship, that’s when the real cheating would begin.  I would occasionally turn tricks behind their backs if I wanted money (or just because I fucking like it), but that’s not really cheating since it’s just a job and I’ll never see that guy again (well, I saw some of them again. One guy wanted me to come back and play with his girlfriend while he watched.  That bitch was so coked up it was ridiculous, she was naked and bouncing on her tippy-toes when she walked around and just totally out of it.  I fucked her with a dildo on the couch.  She just flopped around and looked blank.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she died that night.)

Once the cheating started, it was all downhill from there.  If they didn’t love me, it didn’t matter if I cheated on them, it couldn’t hurt them.  Even if it did, I didn’t care.  I don’t owe anyone anything if they don’t adore me.  Although I can say I ended it with most of my boyfriends, it was always a preemptive strike because I knew, once they tried it the first time, they were going to keep trying to break up with me until it stuck.  And I could always sense when that final time was right around the corner.  I’ve done it by moving out of state at least a time or two.

I’ve realized that with my behavior, and the frequency of divorce, marriage is no guarantee that I will not die alone.  I want someone to love me forever, and I won’t have that if I keep acting like a fucking sociopath of a narcissist all the time.  I had a boyfriend a while back who pointed out every single narcissistic thing I did.  Freaking everything.  My current one has to stop me and say “it’s not always about you, you know,” and frankly, it shocks me every time.  “It’s not??” That’s the thing people don’t want to understand: sometimes, it’s innocent.  I really don’t know how things are or how I sound.  Of course, when it’s pointed out to me, I am willing to try to make it somehow not about me (old habits die hard, y’all), and I do try to compromise.  I’m not trying to be horrible all the time.  I just am that way.  I try so hard to be nice when I go out in public.  But it’s exhausting.  It’s just not who I am.

But as Wreck-It Ralph says: “I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.” I can use my badness for good.  I’m the friend you can go see gory movies with and hide your eyes, and you can trust me to describe anything plot-specific you may be missing, and of course the proper moment to open your eyes again.  If someone’s picking on you, and you’re in my chosen few, I’ll scare them for you.  When we walk down the street alone, in the dark, don’t worry, I’ve got a knife and I’m looking for rocks or pieces of metal to grab, just in case.  Is someone spurting blood? Let me put a bandage on it, at worst I’ll just get horny.  And I’m sure there are other applications.  Just because I have no means to really care doesn’t mean I’m outwardly malicious.  I am friendly when I like the people I’m with.  But yes, you still have to pass a difficult test.

I have one female best friend.  She lives in another state.  I have a few casual girlfriends (not that kind of girlfriend, perverts), but I only ever make plans with one of them, once every several months.  The others I see when I run into them or am looking to sell some stuff I don’t want.  All of my friends that I feel I have some kind of connection to (except the one BFF) are ones I’ve slept with.  Whether it was once, a few times, or a relationship long enough where you don’t count, those are the people I want to be around.  They’re the ones I feel comfortable with.  Knowing they still want me is certainly awesome, but… I spent about twelve minutes trying to think of a way to finish that sentence, and I couldn’t.  It’s because I still have a hold over them.  That’s really it.  And it’s so fucking fun.  But that’s about all I know how to do.  Even now, I have a scheme for every man I meet.  I can’t act on any of them, of course, but I still plan them.  It’s what I do.  On a platonic level, and I actually do have some platonic male friends, I get along better with men.  There’s still the potential for sexual mischief, but it doesn’t have to go there.  I still feel more comfortable talking about aggressive and intellectual kinds of things.  But yeah, in the end, it comes down to who I could have sex with.

 

Well, y’all, my fiance will be here soon and I don’t trust no kind of newfangled technology to save my post, so I’ll have to post the next part on of this tomorrow.  Trust me, I’m getting to a point.  Enjoy the long walk with me.

My gay friends would never understand.

But they probably would better than anyone.

 

I don’t seek out an official diagnosis anymore because I’m worried about the repercussions.  Who wants to be labeled in such a way that makes you an undesirable, an untouchable?  Could it impair potential employment options? My defense in a criminal trial? Alimony payments? Custody of my children? There’s nothing that says I *must* be terrible, just because of who I am, no guarantee that I will wreak havoc or destroy everyone I touch.  If I ever dissected an animal it was in the name of science and dead before I found it.

 

My mother started me on therapy when I was thirteen.  A close family member had just died, and I was getting mixed up with some older boys.  One night, I snuck out and did not return until the next day (I was held against my will and raped all night but I told my parents I was sleeping in a friend’s yard–they didn’t believe me at first, but by gum, I stuck to that lie for the next five-plus years and eventually, somehow I had been persistent enough in the lie and they came to believe it).  That afternoon I was forced to see my first therapist.  I bounced around with different therapists and doctors, always refusing medication until graduate school, when I had my first psychotic break and I decided I wanted nothing to do with that.  The best Axis I diagnosis I’ve gotten is, “you have highs and lows, but you don’t go completely ‘Woo00OO00oo!'” Still, I take a mood-stabilizer, and responded well to an anti-psychotic a while back, but I gave it up when I started eating more fat and got happier (and lost weight, it’s awesome, you should try it).

 

I went to psychologist once to see if maybe he could help me and my fragile ego (I just got kicked out of school for being too fucking awesome), and he took me on for free.  I was a little bit grossed out because he was about seventy-five years old and fat and ugly and kept talking about how *I* liked to “fuck”.  Even I don’t really call it “fucking,” when I’m talking about it in terms of say, an acquisition I am looking to make, or someone/thing I did, I prefer “sex” or “sleep with” (in Swedish, samlag). It made me uncomfortable so I stopped seeing him. He diagnosed me as “borderline,” but I think more because 1) female sociopaths and narcissists are fairly rare, and 2) If *I* believed I was a “broken” and on the “borderline” of neurosis and psychosis, it would be easier for him to manipulate and abuse me.  He was already unwilling to see me as strong as a man (sorry, I do think masculine emotions are far superior and I despise nothing more than weakness in men, although I am more forgiving of gay men, and of course I like butch lesbians quite a bit, whereas straight women, are, for the most part, the most horrible group of people I’ve ever encountered), and if “I cut myself a couple of times as a teenager” translates to “positively, definitely, borderline despite other indicators,” then I would have been an impossible mess of a woman, overly dramatic, and I’m sure, in his mind, a victim.

 

A lot of girls who have eating disorders cut themselves.  I don’t know why, but the two are often comorbid.  The reasons for eating disorders vary.  Some girls hate themselves because they were abused. Some girls get involved in sports like gymnastics, wrestling, or crew, and unfortunately get tricked into it in order to achieve greatness in athletics–a positive goal at first (not to discount the men who get eating disorders, again often related to athletics or career choices before self-hatred).  Then comes the cutting.  At least in my experience, I did it out of boredom a lot of the time.  I did, on occasion, use it to my advantage and to manipulate my boyfriend.  But it was working for the other girls, so why not try it myself?  The last time I cut myself I was 16.  Shortly after that I started cheating on that boyfriend and stopped cutting myself.  I learned a new trick. 

 

Constantly needing your “narcissistic supply” can also make you appear borderline.  But it’s not all about having them simply pay attention to me, I also want to play games with them.  Make this one think he has a chance, take that one home, and then sleep with the guy who told you what happened when the other two found out and fought.  I like a good mindfuck, but at least I do occasionally reward someone who has played the game well.

 

It’s like finding the key in your friend’s intestines.  

 

I think I’m most likely a narcissist with antisocial traits as well.  I’m grandiose, and everyone who knows me knows this, and I have a very hard time with empathy.  The whole notion confuses me.  The narcissist is supposed to be very manipulative, but also has no empathy.  That’s impossible! How can one possibly be a master manipulator without being able to recognize and play on another person’s emotions?  Yet, when people cry (especially on the phone), I get very disturbed.  I don’t know what to do.  I feel very uncomfortable and more than a little perturbed (seriously? here? now?).  I read in an article on empathy that narcissists and sociopaths feel cognitive empathy, which allows them to recognize others’ emotions, but the narcissist is too busy caring only for herself to do anything with that empathy, and the narcissist recognizes them, but cares not if they hurt a person because, furthermore, they have no remorse. 

 

I’d say I was a narcissist alone if I didn’t spend so much time thinking about slitting other peoples’ throats.  That and I think “sociopath” sounds cuter than “narcissist”.  I don’t know if I should really worry about where I fall in the spectrum.  I figure I’m somewhere, and was always destined to be.  My paternal grandfather was a psychopath.  He went to prison and was diagnosed.  My maternal grandfather, while never diagnosed with anything, was one of those guys who started families every few years in new towns.  Easily a narcissist, maybe a sociopath.  My father has his issues and has always given me weapons as gifts and lacks the ability to love and definitely has empathy issues.  My mother is the lone good influence on me.  She did pretty well, I think.  I could be worse.

 

The reason I’m talking about this today is because a personality disorder is something that you have to keep hidden if you’re not around the people who love and, strangely, accept you for who you are.  I’ve been listening to Mackelmore, and I thought, this might be how gay people felt only a few decades ago (and still, in some horrible places).  Nobody can really tell just by looking at you (although they’ve done studies and people typically can identify homosexual people just from their picture), so you try to hide it to fit in, so no one judges you for it.  Because remember, no one chooses this.  It is an intricate balance between nature and nurture that made me this way.  The wrong people exchanged chromosomes, then sucked at taking care of me, allowed me to be harmed, and then, voila, crazy and danger combine and grow up.

 

So, next time you revile a sociopath, think, for just a second, what kinds of horrible situations made them that way.  And they can hardly help but recreate it most of the time.

 

“And I can’t change.

Even if I tried.

Even if I wanted to.”