The other day I started reading the journal I kept during the time I thought I was a psychopath. I didn’t get very far into it. I had to stop because I found it so disturbing. In it I talked about specific people I thought about killing. I wrote about wanting to put antifreeze in foods and coffee at my work and in other people’s homes. In addition to researching different types of antifreeze and the percentage of ethylene glycol in each one, I described how to commit arson using the necessary “fire trilogy” and how to use the poison abrin which comes from a plant and has no antidote. Time for me to say that, though I thought a lot about them, I never acted on any of these urges. I also spent numerous pages listing the symptoms of various mental disorders trying to find a reason for what I was feeling. I described anti-social personality disorder, paranoid personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and conduct disorder.
I noticed a couple thing while I read the first quarter of that old journal. The first is that I was very arrogant. I thought I was “special” and that I was going to be infamous. At the start of my journal I explained the reason why I was writing down my thoughts during that dark time: “I’m documenting this so when a book is written about me, and I have no doubt one will be, they will be able to include excerpts and truly understand me.” It gets a little crazy after that. I also noticed the intense anger I was feeling. I didn’t straight up say that I was overflowing with rage, but it was obvious from the words I used, the tone my writing took, and the things I said about other people.
After deciding I wouldn’t continue reading the journal, I flipped to the very last page. I ended my documenting of that time with the following words, “I need therapy. I need counseling.” Obviously I was right about that! I know that dialectical behavioral therapy has saved my life. Especially when I started learning how to use the emotion regulation skills.
I don’t think I’m a psychopath, and I don’t think I ever was. Good thing. Now Crazy Jay doesn’t have to worry about antifreeze in the pasta sauce or waking up to find me leaning over him with an upraised knife.