Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

He set his notepad down and, leaning forward rested his forearms on his knees.

  "I'm saying that your emotional development was warped by parental neglect and emotional abuse. That your responses were born of a survival instinct. One that only recently have you been forced to question whether it's valid." He waited until I met his eyes to continue. "I am also saying that what is causing you so much distress when it comes to your friends, and yes, to Henry, is that you've begun to care for someone other than yourself."

  I returned to my seat on the couch as a need to feel anchored to something overwhelmed me. I reached for a tissue though there was no danger of tears and began shredding it.

  "That's distraction, Charlotte. Please stop."

  I ignored him. A feeling of being trapped was taking over. The room felt hot, my heart began racing.

  He moved quickly, startling me as he took the seat next to me on the sofa. Gently, he stilled my hands.

  "Another favor." He took the bits of tissue and laid them on the table. "Say the first word that come to mind with each word I give you."

  I clenched my fists, but nodded.

  "Love," he began.

  "Risk."

  "Honesty."

  "Punishment."

  "Protection."

  "Lies."

  "Respect."

  "Façade."

  "Trust."

  "Henry."

  He stopped then and smiled at me. To my horror, I burst into tears. Dr. Scribens handed me a tissue and I mopped at my face.

  "Why are you crying?"

  "Every person I've ever trusted has hurt me. I don't want to trust anyone. I don't want to trust Henry."

  I cried harder.

  "Charlotte, look at me." I shook my head, I couldn't. I was shocked to feel his warm palm envelope mine. "You already trust Henry. You're afraid he'll hurt you. And, you're afraid of the pain that will come if you lose him. Welcome to the human race, Ms. Wolfe."

  I didn't remove my hand, but I was listening as he continued.

  "Everything else is just self-justification at this point in your life, Charlotte. Based on what you've shared in these sessions, you haven't let anyone get close enough to you to truly hurt you since you left your childhood home. You set up unreasonable tests and they inevitably failed."

  His words matched what I had already begun to see with Adam. I kept listening.

  "I won't ask you to trust me, Charlotte. I'll either earn your trust, or I won't. But, there is something I want you to do for me. Will you?"

  "Depends on what it is," I sniffled and blew my nose.

  He chuckled, "Fair enough." His smile was reassuring, and it worked. I felt better. Then, he told me what he wanted me to do.

  * * *

  Session Notes (Excerpt)

  I am cautiously optimistic that a breakthrough has occurred with Ms. Wolfe. She is resisting counsel less and considering more the concept of her sociopathy. Her initial resistance was normal. Most sociopaths don't see themselves as having any issues and tend to focus on externalities as the cause of their problems.

  Ms. Wolfe's spontaneous gesture of making amends to people she has harmed in the past is evidentiary of the possibility that she has entered into a spontaneous remission. This is consistent with current research wherein roughly 2% of the sociopathic population remits every year after the age of twenty-one.

  Based on what Ms. Wolfe has shared in session regarding her early life, it is reasonable to conclude that her sociopathic behavior has a maternal causation consistent with both Glueck and Bowlby. She lacked maternal affection, consistent discipline, and affection with little to no behavioral boundaries placed upon her. Her recitation of adolescent behaviors that were reckless and cruel indicate that her sociopathic traits likely manifested as a child and went unchecked in an ambivalent and emotionally neglectful environment.

  I've set Ms. Wolfe a series of exercises to further test her willingness to embrace her "remission" and reorder her life around normal, empathetic behavior regardless of how foreign it might seem at this juncture.

  Marcel Scribens, Ph.D.

  * * *

  Blog Post: Finding a Moral Code

  Life Inside the Echo Chamber

  As many of you know, I own my own business. Also, I lost my financial cushion when my last relationship ended. So, now I have to hustle to make ends meet. This means I spend a lot of time now doing research on how to build a successful business. You'd think I would have always done that, but in many ways, the fact that I relied on my ex rather than doing that is exactly the point of this post. But, I digress. I was recently reading an article on business ethics while on the subway. The article contained a section on how to determine whether an action was ethical. It's a simple moral test consisting of three questions:

  Would you be okay if your actions became public knowledge?

  Would you be comfortable admitting your actions to your family and loved ones?

  Do your actions fit your personal moral code?

  It was a shock to me to realize that I was absolutely confounded by this simple test. Taking my customary actions as a whole, my honest answers would more often than not be: no, no and I have no fucking idea.

  I was so struck by this that I literally sat there stupefied for several minutes. I missed my stop even. My realizations came in this order:

  The blog is proof of the answer to the first question. If my real identity were to be discovered, my reputation could be ruined. I would be humiliated if my personal life and history were to be made public.

  As for my family and loved ones. I would never want them to know about my life, but that is more because they are awful people, but also because they would use that knowledge to hurt me.

  It the last one that really blew my mind though. I simply could not answer that last question. I couldn't see where I had a moral code. I believed in rules. I followed them but that's because they made it easy for me. Whatever the rules said was okay and what they didn't wasn't. But this was because, frankly, left to my own devices I generally did whatever the hell I wanted without regard for anyone else.

  So rules were good for me. Rules meant I didn't stand out from the crowd. Rules meant I didn't get pushed out of the pack. But, I only followed the rules until it no longer suited me or they got in my way and then I broke them without a thought as long as I could hide it and frankly when I did get caught I lied like hell to cover my ass. Period.

  You see, the one thing I learned very early on was no one was going to take care of me and no one was going to give me anything. I had to take what I needed. My mother only bought me things when she couldn't rationalize not doing so or if my sister was getting it too (but that's really part of the former isn't it?). I went on shopping trips with them and waited for my sister to ask for something because then my mother couldn't rationalize saying no to me. This was how I acquired things as a child.

  My father was a whole different story. I remember always knowing he would say no. We had to eat quickly or else miss out at the dinner table and you never asked for anything from him. You lied and made up excuses to get something or else he would say no. End of discussion.

  I remember once in college, I needed thirty dollars for winter gear as it was getting cold in the Blue Ridge Mountains and my work study only amounted to $80 per month, which I had to use to feed myself and pay any bills I had. I already worked in the kitchens at school in order to ensure I had at least one meal per day. Needless to say, money was tight. I put off calling for days because I didn't know what to say, I couldn't just ask for the money, he'd say no. I ended up saying someone had stolen my stuff and I didn't get paid for another month.

  My father pissed a bitch like I'd asked him for $3,000 rather than $30 dollars but that was the way things were. We weren't allowed to go to the doctor unless we were obviously bleeding or had something broken.

  I'm told by my other relatives that I was never held, that if I cried I was left to cry it out until I was exhausted. That I
also refused to allow my mother to do anything for me and was determined to always learn to do things for myself and that I was a very distrusting child. I'm told I was violent and that I was often punished because when other children fussed with me I was quick to hit them.

  I don't remember that when I was young, but I do have a violent temper to this day and my first emotional response is to want to hit something. My therapist informed me that my "maladaptive thinking" is normal for children of neglect. That they become grasping and difficult and often have a desperation about them. That my difficulty forming emotional connections and bonds is the result of that neglect and that I had no moral compass.

  I scoffed at him when he said this. Of course, I did. I knew right from wrong. Then he asked me if that mattered to me, right and wrong? I never answered because the alarm dinged and our time was up. I left his office and tried not to think about what he had said.

  He was right, I have no moral compass. I couldn't quote a moral code to you that was based on my own personal belief, but I sure as shit could quote you laws, rules and the Ten Commandments. However, do unto others as you would have them do unto you was irrelevant to me. I’ve lived by do what you want and take what you can get as long as you can get away with it.

  You see, another side effect of my mother and father's brand of parenting was me growing up with the belief that when you wanted something you had to take it. Asking was a no-no. Gifts were met with suspicion because I never received a gift growing up, I received bribes. Each "gift" was really a bribe to keep up the pretense my mother insisted on that we were a normal, "Brady Bunch" kind of family.

  With no parental oversight, I did whatever I wanted with no regard. The only thing that ever kept me in line was fear of punishment. If there was a demonstrable punishment to be had by being caught, I thought twice at least, but it didn't always stop me.

  For instance, I went out stealing street signs and knew that as long as I was under eighteen, it didn't matter, my juvenile record would be expunged on reaching my majority. In my relationships, my attitude was always better them than me. I faked it enough to be accepted and didn't worry about the rest.

  That day, however, I realized I honestly had no moral compass and for the first time that bothered me. I had just come out of a relationship that, objectively, was a disaster and I felt utterly disgusted with myself.

  I was presented with a test of my understanding that very same evening.

  I had stopped at the drugstore to buy a few things I needed and the cashier handed me two $20 bills instead of the two $1 bills owed me. My usual reaction in this situation would have been to keep the money. But, in light of what I'd just realized about myself, I didn't think about it (well, not very long anyway) as I said to the woman, "You gave me the wrong change, you only owed me $2 not $40." She thanked me profusely saying how much trouble she would have got in over the till not balancing.

  It wasn't until I walked away that the purpose of a moral code became clear. We do have a responsibility to not damage the people around us. To ensure our behavior harms no one first. Those doctors have it right, first do no harm.

  I'm a long way from a moral code, but I think I just may get there.

  * * *

  Dear Henry:

  Please pardon the formality, but that is the only way I know to do this.

  There are things you don't know about me. Things that normally I would never allow you to know. I've generally controlled information, doling it out on a need-to-know basis. You see, for me, knowledge has always been about control.

  You may or may not realize that I've never been very good at caring about anyone other than myself, and, in that vein, most people's opinions mean very little to me beyond how I can gain from them.

  Strangely, I find myself wanting to be worth your good opinion and that is very disconcerting. I don't mean that I want you to think well of me per se. I always want people to think well of me, that's the main reason why I lie, so they will. Or, rather, lied. I find I no longer need to control people's opinions.

  I have you to thank for that. You were the first person to ever accept me as I came. That's part of what is so different. I don't want to control your opinion. I just want to be someone you think well of.

  You've thrown me for a loop, Henry. I don't know what to do with you. You don't fit into any of my boxes.

  I've been seeing a counselor recently and I realized something today. I don't want there to be any secrets between us. I need to be fully and truly honest with you.

  I'm scared you'll reject me. And maybe this is a cowardly way to do it, but I feel like I need to do this now. I don't think I can fully trust that you truly accept me, the real me, if I don't.

  I write a blog. A deeply personal blog that exposes me more fully than even our conversations. I'd like to invite you to read it. You are the only person I've ever shared this with. What I truly want, Henry, is to know that you can accept me, even with my flaws as deep as they are. I like you. I think you're my first real friend.

  But, I am scared. My past is ugly. There's no way around that.

  You can find my blog at LifeInsideTheEchoChamber.Wordpress.com. If your opinion of me changes and you don't want to be my friend anymore, I'll be very sad, but I will accept it.

  Yours,

  Charlotte

  7. Homework

  WHY IS IT THAT THE thing you are looking for is always the last thing you find? I brushed the back of my hand against my damp forehead and blew across my nose to rid it of the fine dander coating my skin. I was inside the tiny storage unit that I maintained for the few mementos I was willing to keep of my past.

  I'd been putting off Dr. Scribens's homework for several days, finding excuses in work. My next session was coming up and I couldn't put it off any longer. I'd considered canceling but that seemed like I might as well sky write "I didn't do my homework." He'd know right away. So, here I was, looking through boxes, trying to find that quintessential record of childhood: the family photo album.

  I'd acquired mine when my mother died. It had been bequeathed to my sister, but then so had everything of value. Rather than argue, I'd decided that she could have the trinkets, but she wasn't getting what memories I had. I'd taken it before the last funeral guest had left the after-party. I don't know what you call those after-funeral gatherings that Southern Baptists have. If we were Irish, it would have been a wake.

  Anyway, I guess I should feel bad about that. I don't.

  I had just finished combing through the last box in the far corner when I found it (penance for my lack of remorse, I'm sure). Either way, I was just glad to have located the album. I stuffed it into the satchel I brought with me and returned everything to some form of order before locking the door and making my way home.

  I didn't look at it the entire trip, but its presence was palpable. There was a reason I keep these things locked away where they were virtually inaccessible to me. I didn't like these trips down memory lane.

  My life had always been like those spiked metal strips at the entrances to military bases. The ones where so long as you keep driving forward, you don't damage your tires, but, the moment you back up, you destroy your back wheels.

  Yeah, I didn't go backwards often.

  But, Dr. Scribens had been precise. And, I wasn't paying to ignore his directives. So, memory lane, here I come.

  * * *

  Once home, I set the satchel down next to the sofa and called Hugo to me. He snuffled and sniffed until he'd recorded all the new scents before nudging my hand to pet him. Dutifully, I scratched his ears, fed him, and put out fresh water before taking him on an extended ramble.

  We ran into Rosa on our way back into the building, which led to dinner with her and G, who showed up midway through. After dinner, we hung around and watched reality television, debating the merits of the finalists versus those eliminated.

  Señor and Hugo had formed an alliance of sorts. Señor tended to use him as a pillow and Hugo
tolerated it. When Rosa began yawning, I took Hugo and myself upstairs, waking G who had nodded off during a cooking competition.

  We parted ways at the top of the steps and I closed the door behind me, deliberately avoiding looking in the direction of the satchel. I didn't have to see it to know it was there. Its presence throbbed with the lure of memory. Still, I avoided it.

  I went through my nightly ablutions, lingering over them like I needed to draw each one out to its fullest extent before moving on. My teeth had never been so thoroughly flossed, nor my skin so shiny from exfoliation. I changed into my most comfortable pajamas, made a cup of soothing ginger tea, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat on the sofa.

  And sat there.

  And sat there some more.

  Hugo jumped up next to me, uninvited, but I said nothing. He'd gotten tired of waiting for me to call him up, which I always did, but I was preoccupied.

  Finally, I reached for the satchel, extracting the album and putting it in my lap. Hugo, whom I had jostled in the process, huffed his impatience before settling himself back down in a furry ball next to me.

  I stared at it. So innocuous. It was a standard photo album. The kind that had been prolific in the early 1970s. It was really a three-ring binder with black pages, each holding two yellowed photos per side. The photos were held in place with those corner stickers. My mother's spidery scrawl adorned the border of each photo. The cover was decorated in gaudy, baroque styled filigree with the words "Our Family" stenciled across the front.

  It might as well have been The Terrorist Handbook. It felt explosive in my lap. I didn't want to look at it. As it was, it was taking everything I had not to throw it across the room. When I'd stolen it (let's call a spade a spade), it hadn't so much been about my memories, there were few enough of those in there, but more because my sister wasn't going to get to have this. She'd gotten everything else.

  I traced the words on the front cover of the album, a tense smile on my face. Bitterly, I reflected that it should have been called Helen's Show, since that would more accurately reflect its contents.

  I sighed and shook my head. These maudlin thoughts weren't doing me any good. It was what it was and I'd left this part of my life behind a long time ago, though Dr. Scribens didn't seem to agree.