Sex is my go-to drug of choice when I need a quick shot of validation or self-medication. It's an escape through the endorphic release an orgasm brings. If I'm being completely truthful, the pursuit of the ultimate orgasm has become my holy grail. Deep inside, I think that a man who can satisfy me sexually is the one man to solve all my problems.
Despite how willing I am to use sex as a manipulation, I have to admit that the only time the clawing emptiness I live with recedes is when I am floating in the glow of aftermath. Yet, each time it returns with a vengeance later, causing me to seek out sex again. And, after a break up, I always find a willing mark to feed my ego and my craving for the high.
I tried to do this the other night. Yet, I couldn't go through with it. As he touched and fondled me, I had this moment of clarity. I saw that using men the way I had only made me feel worse; the void in my soul only grew. It became apparent that there is not an orgasm pleasurable enough to fill the hole that exists in my psyche, the empty place in my heart, or the need in my soul.
I told him no and it ended amicably. Crazily, I think I made a friend. He was going through his own stuff and thanked me for not letting him do something stupid! Combine that with a man I've met who appears to accept me unconditionally and swears he's not trying to screw me!
I have no idea what to do with him. I even told him so. I also told him it would be easier for me to just go ahead and screw him so that I could understand what was going on in my life. His answer was to assure me that he was more interested in my brain.
That terrified me more than the idea of screwing him. I don't know if I can let someone into my head. Let them see the real me, unfiltered. Most of my honesty with him has been aggressive, almost like daring him to retaliate.
He scares me.
This whole situation is freaking me out. I feel like I don't know myself anymore, dear reader. I actually made an appointment with the doctor to see what's going on with me.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Part III
Risky Behavior
Psychopaths are born with temperamental differences such as impulsiveness, cortical under-arousal, and fearlessness that lead them to risk-seeking behavior and an inability to internalize social norms. On the other hand, sociopaths have relatively normal temperaments; their personality disorder being more an effect of negative sociological factors like parental neglect, delinquent peers, poverty, and extremely low or extremely high intelligence.
Psychopath vs. Sociopath, Diffen.com
1. Freudian Slips
Blog Post: Playing With Words
Life Inside the Echo Chamber
I have a quirk about language. I often ponder the definitions of words and the ways in which American society twists the original meanings. For instance, we use "cool" to describe things that are popular, instead of less than cold, but not warm. Another good example is the way we use guilt and remorse interchangeably, and yet they have different meanings.
The point to all this, dear reader, is that recent events have had me pondering the nature of satisfaction over gratification. When you investigate below the surface, they are different. According to the dictionary, satisfaction is actually "fulfillment of one's wishes, expectations, or needs, or the pleasure derived from this." Gratification, on the other hand, is defined as "pleasure, especially when gained from the satisfaction of a desire." So, satisfaction comes when you go beyond the simple desire and fulfill an expectation or need. Gratification is the mere servicing of a desire.
I know, I know, get to the point already! I see now that I've spent my life in pursuit of gratification. The fleeting pleasure associated with new conquests, new purchases, etc. Hell, buying a pair of Jimmy Choos ranked the same as entering a new relationship. They were all there to make me feel good.
But, recently, I helped my neighbor, the DJ, and his brother, the Cop, come to an agreement on allowing the DJ to try his hand at a music career. This was out of character for me. I stay out of things like this, but I like the DJ. He's a good kid and I wanted to help.
The thing that got me thinking along these lines is that afterward, I had this warm, floaty feeling for days! It was satisfying to help, dare I say it, a friend. It was nothing like my other pursuits in which the feeling fades as soon as the "new" is gone. The pursuit of gratification is a lot like being a locust. You identify a target, consume it, and move on to find another. There is a constant emptiness driving the gratuitous consumption for no other reason than to experience fleeting pleasure.
What I am saying, dear readers, is that I got a taste of what true satisfaction feels like and I must say, there is no competition.
* * *
"The doctor will see you now," said the tall, gazelle-like woman who could have walked any runway across the world. Why she was working as a secretary at a psychologist's office was beyond me. But, then, my presence at Dr. Scribens office meant I was not in my right mind.
I followed the woman down a short hall, admiring the way her pants and blouse draped on her body. I was much curvier and some things just didn't work for me. I'd always wanted to wear clothes out of the classic styles of the 1940s. Like Katherine Hepburn in A Philadelphia Story. Elegant dress pants accentuating long, lean legs. Blouses that made you look fit and classy. But, at five feet and pear shaped, I just couldn't pull it off.
The secretary waved me into a peaceful, cozy room decorated more like a sitting room than a shrink's office. Dr. Scribens must do his administrative work somewhere else. The decor was artfully androgynous with a blue herringbone couch fronted by a low-slung coffee table in white enamel. On top of the coffee table was a box of tissues (that was a no brainer) and a set of pale green pillar candles at various heights that emitted a faint citrus scent. The soot balls polka dotting the wax spoke to numerous burnings.
On the other side of the coffee table were two white club chairs that could have come from a decorator’s showroom. I almost claimed one of the chairs, but the amorphous artwork that adorned the wall over the sofa looked too much like a Rorschach drawing for my taste. I was uncomfortable enough just being here, I didn't need a persistent reminder that I was losing my mind.
Instead, I sat on the sofa and admired the view. Dr. Scribens’s office was located on the 20th floor of a ritzy high-rise on K Street (the elevator had been pristine). It was early evening and in the dusky twilight, I could see the lights of Crystal City just across the Potomac River.
While I waited, I took stock of the rest of the room. The walls were covered in a shade of pewter that furthered the relaxed, comfortable vibe. The rest of the art, while equally abstract, was not so overtly psychiatric in nature.
As I set my purse on the cushion next to me, the door opened and I got my first look at the man who was going to explain my erratic behavior to me. He was tall with the build of someone who had likely played competitive sports at one point and tried to keep fit. His skin was the color of espresso and his eyes, which locked with mine as he smiled, introduced himself, and shook my hand, were the deep amber of artisan root beer. Like many men confronted by hair loss, he shaved his head, but he more than made up for the lack of hair on his head with a trimmed beard and mustache.
In contrast to the exquisite elegance of his office and secretary, Dr. Scribens wore jeans, lace-up loafers, and a cotton button down shirt. Somehow, he still managed to exude class. I felt almost frumpy in my silk sheath and jeans.
In my defense, what the hell do you wear to see a shrink? I mean, it's not a normal doctor where you wear whatever is comfortable because you're going to have to get naked. It's not a business meeting where you dress professionally, so I'd gone for something in between.
He sat in one of the club chairs, his face curious and open as he set a steno pad on his crossed legs and pulled out a fountain pen. Points for the doc on the pen. Fountain pens were the Rolls Royce of writing implements in my opinion.
"So, Charlotte," his voice was rich, like chocolate, "I understand you'
ve been referred by your GP. Can you tell me what brings you in my door?"
For no reason I could explain, the instant I opened my mouth to speak, my heart started racing and my hands went liquid. I felt droplets of perspiration run down my ribs and soak into my bra. This made no sense whatsoever. This man was literally paid not to judge me.
Taking a deep breath, I surreptitiously wiped my hands on my jeans and said, "Sure thing. Well, basically, I haven't been acting like myself recently. I mean … what I'm trying to say …"
"Charlotte, there's no rush," he interrupted my stammering, "take your time."
I blinked and mentally counted to ten, I'd willfully brought myself in here, so floundering like a beached fish was just stupid.
"Long story short, doc, I've been behaving in ways that are really out of character for me. I was concerned I might have a brain tumor, so I went to see Dr. Krichmar. He just referred me to a neurologist, but after a bunch of tests and an M.R.I. I've been certified free of any neurological issues. Hence, I'm now sitting here."
As I talked, Dr. Scribens was making the appropriate prompting noises and taking copious notes. With no concrete signal from him on whether to stop, I opted to continue.
"My doctor suggested that since I wasn't feeling better or returning to my usual patterns that maybe it was psychological in nature." I shrugged and looked at my hands, "He suggested I might be depressed."
Dr. Scribens stopped writing and raised an eyebrow, the impact of his full attention was almost physical. I could see why he was so highly recommended. He made you feel as if he took you seriously.
"Can you elaborate on that?"
I shrugged, "Okay."
I told him about Adam's desertion, about being forced to leave the condo I loved. I told him about the blog post and my melt down. I told him about mediating for Louis and G and how proud I was that G now had two years to prove he could make it in music. I even told him how I was continuing to freak out over Henry.
He listened intently, asked a few probing questions which had me sharing even more personal details, and then he asked, "So, Charlotte, what do you hope to get out of therapy?"
I had prepared for this question. I'd done research on what to expect from a visit to a shrink and universally all the websites said some form of this question would be asked.
I opened my mouth to give my carefully scripted answer of "I'd like to uncover and resolve any barriers I have to being my best self." But, instead of the answer I'd spent the entire train ride devising, I said, "I have no idea," and burst into tears.
Damn.
* * *
Session Notes (Excerpt)
Ms. Wolfe is a middle-aged woman referred to therapy by her general practitioner for possible depression. As a part of the normal intake interview, Ms. Wolfe was asked to why she decided to seek psychological services. Ms. Wolfe indicated that recent behavior was "out of character" and that she no longer felt as if she recognized herself.
The experiences Ms. Wolfe described that lead to her to seek psychological consultation appear normal for a functioning, empathic individual. When asked what Ms. Wolfe sought to gain from therapy, the client wept and stated she "had no idea."
Subsequent to calming the client, I administered several personality tests and checklists in order to establish a baseline personality profile of Ms. Wolfe given her statements that normal, empathic behavior was out of character for her.
Across multiple self-report inventories tapping both normal-range and pathological personality characteristics, Ms. Wolfe scored beyond the 90th percentile of the community normative data. As such, her presentation could be considered that of a prototypical antisocial or psychopathic personality disorder. The PCL:SV assessment specifically converges with this description, particularly in regards to the patient indicating her normal behavior tends toward a pronounced lack of empathy, attention seeking behavior, and a ruthless and calculating attitude toward social and interpersonal relationships.
It should be noted that at no time did Ms. Wolfe view herself as inherently "troubled" or "disordered". Ms. Wolfe conceded to feeling "different" from her peers, but was generally accepting of these differences as "just the way [she is]." Of course, this attitude is entirely representative of a socio- or psychopath.
Marcel Scribens, Ph.D.
* * *
Later that evening, after going home to clean up and change, I found myself sharing a table with Louis at The 9:30 Club as G worked the crowd. He'd made us promise to come see him play a set, so he could show Louis he was committed.
He was good. G mixed contemporary hip-hop with old school funk and soul. He even managed to mix in some Go-Go, a Caribbean infused music unique to the District. At the precise moment that Rare Essence was telling the crowd to put their Gucci watch on and rock, I knew the kid was going places.
First, he had me ready to drag Louis onto the dance floor. I didn't dance in public, but G had me bopping in my seat and the crowd going crazy. The crowd never stopped. They gyrated, twirled, and slid their bodies against one another continuously. It was as if the music enthralled them and G was their hypnotist. Even Louis had to admit, albeit grudgingly, the kid was good.
I'd expected to do the polite thing. Show my face, listen to a couple songs, and then make my excuses. Instead, I stayed through the end of his first set. As the last strains of "Not Afraid" by Eminem—something I think may have been a bit pointed at Louis—faded, G doffed his headset and came over to the table.
Flipping a chair around, he straddled it and said, "Well? What did you guys think?"
The tension was obvious even under his thick sweatshirt. His shoulders were hunched and his knuckles gripping the back of the chair were white.
I waited for Louis to speak, but he said nothing, just continued to sip the beer he ordered.
Unable to watch G squirm any longer, I said, "I was impressed. You kept the crowd moving. But, I gotta ask, what made you play Rare Essence?"
His entire face lit up as he recounted coming across a street artist who was banging out go-go beats on a shopping cart in front of a subway station, a common enough occurrence in D.C.
"I must have spent an hour just talking with him. He told me about Junkyard, Essence, even Chuck Brown. So, I did some research and managed to get my hands on their stuff." He was grinning and speaking with broad gestures as the passionate are wont to do. "I'm more surprised that you know about go-go, Lady C," he said with an impish look.
I laughed and felt carefree in a way I hadn't in years. "Well, I'm surprising even myself these days, G."
Checking my watch, I saw it was time to go. Hugo was waiting on me and I was tired after the emotions of my psych visit. Louis stood when I did. I made my goodbyes to G and was gratified to hear Louis say, "Make me proud, kid," before clapping him on the shoulder.
G practically floated back to the turntables.
A weird sense of achievement pooled in my limbs. It was the first time in my life I could remember being a part of a happy ending that didn’t directly benefit me in some way.
It was new and different. Like trying food from a foreign culture that tastes good, but the spices and flavors are so different it almost makes you reject it because it's so outside of your experience. Rather than push it away, I willfully let it soak in, rolling the flavor of satisfaction around, tasting its depths and decided I liked it very much.
Louis walked me out and waited with me for a cab. The moment he drew breath to speak, intuition told me what was coming. I had a decision to make.
As things stood, I'd been alone for a couple months now. Henry remained an enigma I couldn't wrap my head around in that I still hadn't figured out what motivated him in his dealings with me. But, for the first time ever, I didn't feel panic at my single state. This mental debate raced through my brain even as my intuition proved true.
"Charlotte," Louis face me, two spots of color dotting his cheeks the only indication he was nervous. "Would you let me take you out
some time?"
And there it was. The rush that always accompanied a man's declaration of attraction swamped me, exciting me in a near sexual fashion. My breath caught as the possibilities filled my mind of how to extract and exploit this base male compulsion. Louis was just odd looking enough that he'd likely be very accommodating. I could suck him dry like a filterless cigarette.
I tingled with anticipation and then I remembered G. His earnest gallantry. His beanpole awkwardness. The tingle died as quickly as a fourth of July sparkler doused in water. Now what?
Rather than analyze it further, I turned off my brain and spoke impulsively, "Louis, I just got out of a relationship where I was really awful to the man for years. If I went out with you, I'd only be using you. So, I have to decline."
His eyes roamed my face for a long time before he asked, "Are you even attracted to me?"
I shook my head, but said, "I've never really been attracted to anyone. Only what they could do for me."
His eyebrows shot up, "Wow! I've never had anyone be that honest."
I shrugged, "I've spent a lot of years lying, but I like your brother and you seem nice. I'd rather not lie to you."
A cab came down the street and Louis hailed it. He opened the door as it pulled in next to us, letting me slide into the back seat. Leaning in, he smiled and me and said, "Thank you, Charlotte. I appreciate your candor."
We'll see, I thought, but said nothing, just nodded and smiled. He closed the door. I gave the driver my destination and watched the city pass by in a blur.
I'd noticed a trend. My honesty meant I remained alone.
2. Getting an Unreal Life
I LET MYSELF INTO MY apartment and, after taking care of Hugo, settled onto my loveseat and fired up my laptop. I felt keyed up and tense, almost brittle. Like sitting still or allowing my mind to wander was too much.
Instead, I logged into my blog to check for comments on my recent posts. I'd finally been able to invoice Haldane for deliverables and received a nice chunk of change to get me through. I'd prepaid six months of rent and Internet service. Without Adam's salary to fall back on, I needed income and I couldn't do everything bouncing between Kona and the library.