Are you a Sociopath? (2)

“I never cry,” you say. “At other people’s pain, or my own. Funerals. Ever. It makes me wonder: Do I lack compassion or empathy? You know… like a sociopath.”

“Some people cry. Some people don’t,” she says. “I don’t think it signifies anything.”

“In meetings people cry all the time,” you reply. “And not just sad women. Guys choke up, too. I never know what to do when that happens. I feel so uncomfortable. I think that’s why I always shut my eyes.” If not a big confession it is still a revelation. Unable or unwilling to cry seems like a marker for a sociopath.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Mia asks.

“You mean with my eyes closed?” A layup joke yet you know that’s not what she means.

“No.” Mia almost laughs. Almost. “The fact that you’re closing your eyes tells me that you’re feeling something which makes you uncomfortable. My point is you’re not a robot. You’re not a sociopath.”

The truth. Like a tiny orgasm, you shudder. You feel connected to the human race, suddenly, briefly. You want more…

“When I was a boy,” you say, “I don’t remember how old, I used to lie in bed imagining that one of my parents had died. I tried to make it seem as real as possible. I would picture the people telling me the news. What they were wearing. What I was doing when they told me. I did all of that to see if I could cry. I wanted to make myself cry. But I couldn’t. I’d just lie there in my bed. Not crying.” The memory of this has always baffled you. Yet, until now, you have not shared it with anyone. You open your eyes.

“Wasn’t it around that time your stepfather committed suicide? What you were imagining sounds a lot like something you’d actually experienced.”

You lean back. Think. Could it be that simple? The two things were eerily similar. “I guess it’s possible.”

“First your father divorces your mother, leaving you. Then your stepfather kills himself. That’s a lot of abandonment. I’m not surprised you kept imagining it could happen again. And that you learned to numb yourself in case it did.”

To be continued…

Knowing we’re “crazy” means we’re less crazy than most.

Here’s to the Crazy Ones…

I admit it. I’m crazy. And for the most part I’m okay with that – not that I have a choice. Ever since I can remember I’ve been aware of my, shall we say, unique perspective on the human condition – or my condition anyway. I wasn’t like the other kids. And I’m not like the other men. And while that can prove irksome at cocktail parties, or at times to my wife, it is simply reality.

Fortunately, I was able to forge a very successful career in advertising, where tempered crazy mixed with hard work is called creativity. Finding compelling ways to persuade people into believing in a product, brand or service requires more than a sound strategy; it demands a unique intuition. Crazy good ideas are hatched from crazy good minds. On good days I was crazy.

Like a lot of crazies, I ran into trouble “augmenting” that reality with drugs and alcohol but those days are thankfully over. I accept the way my mind works, even relish it, and am “aware” in ways no artificial stimulation can simulate.

Going deeper, I’ve come to the conclusion that for a great many of “us” being crazy is merely being more wholly aware than most so-called “normal” people. I am aware of my demons and defects and, for the most part, have learned how to live with them and even play with them. They can be muses. Pandora’s Box can be opened and shut. Yes, depression and anxiety are a part of it. And this is not always a small price to pay (see the preceding paragraph). So be it.

Looking at the world, we see chaos. In religion. In politics. In every other Instagram feed. Millions upon millions of people acting crazy but not identifying as crazy. Speaking and voting and even killing and not aware of it as crazy. Are the multitudes normal or just in hopeless denial?

We crazy ones know the difference. That doesn’t make us “better than” or “less than” but it makes us saner.

(Author’s note: The above anthem is the never-aired version with voice over by Steve Jobs. In retrospect, I prefer it to the read given by Richard Dreyfuss.)