Umm, we’re kind of sorry (and scared) to say this, but according to this test, you ARE a sociopath!
You probably already know that, based on your antisocial behavior and no sense of moral. Don’t be angry, but you should probably seek help and guidance, before you find yourself doing something that can cause you and the people in your life a great heartache. But hey, you would be great on reality TV!
Surely these quizzes aren’t that accurate, but damn. It hurts my heart to think of myself as that flawed and that damaged, but the conclusion that I’ve come to is that it just has to hurt. I am healing myself from something that was never supposed to have happened. Healing is not a cure, because there isn’t one. I know who I was before I met Diane, and I know myself now. Those people are so different that that it is like comparing Anne Shirley to Dexter Morgan. My shame and disgust at my behavior knew no limits because I thought if I could just be some kind of normal person around Diane that I might get a real relationship with her instead of the fucked up one we had. I thought that I was so sick and twisted that it never would have occurred to me on my own that I’d been emotionally turned inside out by a predator when I was younger and it scared the life out of her to have to interact with me every day. This is conjecture on my part, but I feel like when she looked at me, she was reminded of everything she did wrong instead of everything she did right.
When we fought, she found ways of twisting my words so that anything I’d sent that was full of love was returned with annoyance or the “you’re a crazy person let me back away slowly” shtick. Not “we’ve known each other since our original hair colors and have so many inside jokes that we could disappear into our own language at times.” Little known fact. I do not imitate Apu from the Simpsons. I imitate Diane imitating Apu from the Simpsons because it is better than the original. The best cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my entire life was at our friend Michelle’s house. We were sitting outside and she handed me her cup and said, “I’ll always share with a friend.” I didn’t like strong coffee with half-and-half, no sugar. I didn’t like IPA beer. But I developed a palate for them both because it is what she drinks. Not in a creepy way. Just in an “I remember this most about us- sharing coffee and beers.” What I wouldn’t give for one more cup and at the same time, I know I’d clock her in the head with it.
So it’s better just not to go there. Coffee together probably sounds better in my head. Truth be told, it always has been. I started losing interest in reality the more she treated me like crap because I could use my imagination to fill in the gap- you know, the one between “I am a great friend to you,” and “no, you aren’t?” That’s why people think I make up shit for fun. I’ve been doing it to protect myself since I was 12. Why would I want you to know how much I was suffering? To that end, Diane was a miracle to me and nothing less………….. in public. Behind closed doors, she said everything from “I am so glad to have loved you and mentored you this long” to “I can’t remember anything. I was high every time you called.” For all my stoners out there, has pot ever erased your memory to the point where you forgot two years? Especially two whole years of a middle schooler being absolutely crazy about you and you participating in it? I get how boundaries got loose. But to say it made you forget everything is horseshit, made real by poetry I got from her after she said that saying she remembered everything. I never knew which Diane was going to show up, and I grew quite tired. I never knew which direction was home base, and which direction led to freefalling through ice, water like knives on my chest sweeping me further away from the hands with the auger.
I was so confused; I didn’t know what to think, and I didn’t know what questions to ask. I was just lost in my own little world of rumination, because in my own mind, Diane couldn’t have done anything wrong. I was too much of an emotional wreck as a child. It was all my fault. I deserved it. She wasn’t playing with my heart. She was trying to be a good influence. I just had to wait.
I took all of the responsibility for everything that happened. All 25 years of it. I was such a horrible person that I didn’t deserve to live. I was rescued from that line of thought, but it will never leave me that my abuse led me to that place while it led everyone else to think that I was a fucking liar. She couldn’t have possibly.
It’s the part of me that makes my nothing box hurt. It’s that part of me that wants to go for the jugular of anyone that dare defy me, because I will let a lot of people be right about a lot of things, but not about this. I should not have had to wonder if Diane was coming on to me by giving me her college journal as a 14th birthday present. I shouldn’t have been able to read about her college adventures in 8th grade while I held on to my boyfriend and we flirted with our eyes.
My boyfriend. We have to talk about this. Diane didn’t want me, but she didn’t like Ryan, either (see last sentence above). Even if it was appropriate friend-love and just jealous of the *time* I was giving him and not the affection, it was still wrong. It was using a child for something they’re just not meant or equipped to handle, which is confidante to a 25 year old woman.
Argo is a mother. Aaron is a father. When I see my own childhood through the lens of “could I do that to someone else’s child?,” my first tendency is to dry heave and tear up. When I think about what I would do if someone tried to hurt my child like that, my eyes flash and I know I have to make three phone calls. The first to Dana, to make sure I am sane. The second, to Argo, to make really sure I’m sane, and the third to Aaron, because I would need him to carry, ummmm, supplies.