How I became interested in sociopathy

This is the introduction to a manuscript I wrote on sociopathy eighteen years ago; my agent and I were never able to get it published. (Simon & Schuster expressed interest, and asked for a rewrite, but then backed out because their previous book on the subject had not sold well, and because I cited famous people.) 

In any case, it describes my introduction to sociopathy. In my blog, I sound like a guy who understands sociopaths, and who's always onto them. As you'll see if you read this, that hasn't always been the case; I started out as just the opposite.

I grew up a typically over-sheltered, naïve child of the upper middle class. I did well on standardized tests, read a lot, and knew pop culture, but my street smarts were nil -- though I didn’t know it at the time. I was a typically rebellious youth, but always more bad boy than bad man. I grew up in a close family, and like many who do, I was overly trusting. Although I thought myself sophisticated, I was very much a creature of my sheltered environment.

When I was 25, and living in Los Angeles, I joined a Masters swimming club at the local YMCA. There was a tall blonde, who swam in my lane and was an excellent swimmer. Let’s call her Anne. She was not my type, so I initially took little notice of her other than as a swimmer. She was dating another swimmer in our group, but she was friendly, and we occasionally chatted about swimming.

When I asked about her times, Anne told me she had missed the American record in the 200 yard backstroke by a second and a half. She certainly was a tough swimmer in practice, pushing herself hard. It made sense that her hard work had achieved results. When I looked her up in Swimming World, her name was not listed in her conference championship, even though the winning time in the 200 yard backstroke was considerably slower than her claimed time. I asked her about this and she explained that she had been sick during the meet and had done her time in a special time trial three weeks later. I had no reason to doubt her.

There had been a famous swimmer at Anne’s college during her time there, a handsome Olympic champion; I asked her what he was like. She looked at me quizzically, then asked, “Are you….I mean, did you hear about us?” I asked what she meant, and Anne replied, “Oh, I thought maybe you’d heard; we were engaged for three years.”

I asked, what happened? “I had to break it off,” Anne explained. “It just wasn’t right. I realized at the end of the three years that I just didn’t love him, and it wasn’t fair to him to go ahead with the marriage.”

My goodness, I thought, most girls would have jumped at the chance to marry this guy.

Anne grew up in the same area as a friend whom I had admired in college, so I asked if she knew him. She looked at me for a couple seconds, then replied, “He was my hero.” It seemed Anne and I had much in common; I thought, too bad she wasn’t more my type physically.

One day Anne asked if I wanted to join her and her boyfriend for sushi after practice. I said sure; we had a pleasant dinner.

A few days later, while her boyfriend was at the other end of the pool, Anne started complaining about him; I listened attentively. Once she saw she had a sympathetic ear, she really started in: he was incredibly selfish, boorish, overly aggressive sexually, and stupid. She concluded by saying she was through with him. He seemed like a regular fellow to me, but on the other hand, I had no reason to doubt her; most men certainly harbor the potential for boorishness. I thought, he must have been a lot worse than most for her to hate him so.

Anne then asked offhandedly if I wanted to grab a bite after practice, and I said sure. I liked her casualness; I wasn’t used to having girls ask me out. We went back to her apartment after dinner, a mention of sore muscles led to a massage, and we ended up fooling around, something I had actually had no intention of doing.

So, naïve as I was, I got involved with Anne. There seemed a lot to admire about her and her family. Anne told me she had graduated from college at age twenty, having skipped two grades early on. Her father, though he came from an extremely wealthy family, had changed his name because he wanted to prove he could make it on his own. Her mother had been brought up in an orphanage, but had made good by marrying her father. One time Anne proudly recounted how her mother had taken her and her previous boyfriend out for dinner, but when he boyfriend had drunk too much, her mother had stuck him with the tab. Anne took this as evidence of her mother’s cleverness.

Anne told me that one time when she was young, a black man had tried to break into the house, but she had grabbed her father’s gun and shot him. I asked her how badly he had been wounded. She replied that she didn’t know.

Anne was entrepreneurial, having set up her own small advertising agency. (I just had a regular office job.)

Early on she told me that the other swimmers in our lane had been making fun of me for my predilection for remembering swimming times so well. This certainly disinclined me from befriending them, or even talking with them. A little while later I noticed that they had become noticeably frosty to me. Since I already disliked them for having made fun of me behind my back, I gave it no further thought.

Anne seemed to constantly have some sort of conflict in her life. One time it was with a business partner who was trying to steal the business from her. Another time it was with a landlord who had not been fair about her lease. I attributed these incidents to her naivete about dishonest people.

Anne also seemed to have a big heart. One evening she said, “I saw this old lady today who was having a hard time crossing the street. I just felt so sorry for her.” Anne got a very plaintive, sympathetic look on her face as she said this. I thought, what a nice woman to feel that sort of compassion; I probably wouldn’t have been so moved.

Sexually, Anne was a strange combination of physical uninhibitedness and a lack of desire -- for me. When I would try to get her into bed, she would always resist, saying that she wasn’t in love with me yet, so it wasn’t right; yet if I got her there, she would close her eyes and her body would just take over. I attributed this to a mix of old-fashioned prudery and a lack of inhibitions; I found this somewhat charming, as I was just the opposite. I had grown up shy and inhibited, and was spending my twenties determinedly making up for a platonic youth.

I was almost proud that I found myself drawn to this woman who was not that physically attractive; I took this as evidence that I wasn’t as shallow as I had hitherto suspected. For her part, she seemed to harbor no lack of confidence in her looks; one day she reported that a fellow had told her that she was so sexy she should be declared illegal. Similar claims would be made sporadically.

A new swimmer joined our club, a tall blond Adonis whom Anne had known back East. She was friendly with him; I was jealous, suspecting the worst. One day he confided in her that he was gay, simultaneously asking her not to tell me (this was 1978). Within fifteen minutes she had relayed his secret to me, warning me to keep my mouth shut. I thought it indiscreet of her to tell me, especially so soon, but at the same time I was relieved.

I once made a complimentary remark about an attractive woman who was a member of our swimming group. Anne immediately volunteered that this woman had droopy breasts. I was once again put off by her indiscretion, but at the same time somewhat flattered by her seeming jealousy. On another occasion Anne informed me that another woman in our group had acne on her rear end.

Anne knew a number of lesbians, although she claimed that lesbians gave her the creeps. Occasionally she would tell me that she suspected one or another of them might be gay. I would tell her that the woman was obviously gay, that she was naïve not to realize it. She would invariably dismiss my suspicions, saying she wanted to give so-and-so the benefit of the doubt. She finally admitted that one of these friends had made a pass at her, which had scared her so much that she had “jumped about a foot off the ground.”

Anne would occasionally lament that it was unrealistic for her to live up to her Golden Girl persona all the time. (“Golden Girl” was the name of a recent movie about a female super-athlete.) It became quite apparent that she felt she was an all around superior specimen.

One time Anne went surfing and took a bad fall on her board. She said she thought she had a broken rib. I drove her to the hospital and waited for her in the lobby. When she came out half an hour later, I asked her what the doctor had said. Two cracked ribs, she replied. I asked why she wasn’t bandaged. “They don’t do that anymore. He just told me to rest and not move around for two weeks.” She smiled and then grimaced, as if the pain from the cracked ribs had just flared up. I had to admire her physical courage.

I once gave Anne a bicycle for her birthday. Two weeks later it was no longer at her apartment. When I asked her about it, she said she had gotten a flat tire and taken it to a shop. Two months later, the bicycle was still at the shop.

Perhaps a less naive person would have backed away, realizing Anne was a liar. I cringe to think of it now, but at the time I had no inkling. Because I was honest to a fault, I generally don’t suspect others of lying. Anne spoke just the way an honest person would, with an open face and no catch in her voice. And, in my defense, nothing in my experience had prepared me for a liar of such magnitude.

At the time, I used the word “unbelievable” in describing Anne to others. I realized later that perhaps my subconscious was telling me something my conscious mind was too thick to grasp: that she really was not believable. (Ironically, the two sociopaths I’ve known best -- apart from Anne -- constantly used the word “unbelievable” in a negative way, about others.)

A friend once gave Anne two newborn kittens. They were two little bundles of fur with big round eyes, housed in a large cardboard box. A few days later the kittens were no longer at her apartment. I asked what had become of them. “They escaped,” she said, seemingly barely able to suppress her tears. “They just got out somehow.” She appeared genuinely heartbroken.

On another occasion we were on the street when we spotted the actor Paul Newman standing by his car. Before I could stop her, Anne loudly yelled “Hi Paul,” waving as if he were an old friend. He looked confused for a second, gave a small wave, got in his car, and drove off. I asked if she knew him. She said no. Even though I would have found this behavior disgusting in someone else, somehow with Anne I found it charming evidence of her lack of inhibitions, her freedom from the usual social strictures.

Anne had cultivated a couple of very rich friends, or so she said. She seemed to take great pleasure in their friendship, and would often mention their names and talk about how wealthy they were. This was one side of her I did not find charming.

Anne was often irresponsible, showing up late and sometimes not even at all when we had arranged to meet. After this happened a couple times, I would get angry. She would blame a traffic jam or a crisis at work; if I expressed doubt, she would blow up at me, just the way an honest person would if accused falsely. In the face of her righteous anger, I would back down. Occasionally she would even start to cry, seemingly at will, and say that I didn’t know how to be a friend. This got me to wondering -- perhaps I really wasn’t a good friend.

The pattern of irresponsibility continued, and I finally confronted Anne about it. She was very apologetic, and promised to try to be more responsible in the future. I relented. She would frequently tell me how much she liked me, and in what high regard she held me, at one point saying, “I would lay myself right down in the street for you.” While I discounted this last statement, I assumed that she generally felt the emotions she claimed, and consequently forgave her more of her behavior than I would have otherwise.

Sometimes when I got angry at Anne for having said something that wasn’t entirely true, she would say plaintively, “But I was just telling you what you wanted to hear,” as if this excused her lying.

The irresponsibility persisted. Finally I told her that I was sick of it and would no longer see her. Anne then told me that she had cervical cancer. She hadn’t wanted to tell me because she didn’t want me to feel sorry for her; but because she might be dying, she felt she had to compress a lifetime’s worth of living into the years that remained. This was why she would often act so impulsively. As embarrassing as this is for me to admit, I have to admit it: I believed her. Even more embarrassingly, I cried when I told my parents about her on the phone. (To this day I am mortified when I think about how stupid they must think me.)

You're probably aghast at my gullibility; I'd be laughing myself if it hadn’t happened to me. Was I incredibly stupid or just naïve? Well, both.

I look back and think, I was the ultimate innocent. Many people who are taken in by people like Anne report the same reaction, that they can’t believe how naïve they were, but that at the time they somehow just suspended their common sense and good judgment. This is why many victims of con artists don’t report the crimes -- because they are too embarrassed by their own stupidity.

Eventually I realized that Anne was not being truthful, and broke off the relationship for good. Soon after, I had brief affairs with two other women from the pool (including the one whom Anne had told me -- falsely, as it turned out -- had “droopy” breasts”). Each told me how surprised she was when I asked her out, saying that Anne had told her -- and everybody else at the pool -- that I was gay. I also found out that she once told the receptionist at my office that I was gay. I thought this particularly rich since I was the one who was always trying to get her into bed. Soon after Anne stopped coming to our pool. Apparently she had borrowed money from a couple people there and repaid them with bad checks.

Sometime during the next few months, when I was still trying to sort it all out, the phrase “pathological liar” came to me. To find out more, I went to the UCLA psychology library to look it up in an abnormal psychology text. The phrase was listed in the index with the reference, “See ‘sociopath’.” I then spent eight of the most interesting -- and epiphanous -- hours of my life, reading various books on the subject.

Sociopaths are people without conscience. They feel no affection or love, though they frequently counterfeit these emotions well. They feel no remorse or shame. They are impulsive, irresponsible, and deceitful. Because of these characteristics, they are capable of the most heinous acts. Anne was a textbook sociopath.

I finally realized that Anne had not done the time she had claimed in the 200 yard backstroke, and that she had never been engaged to the handsome Olympic champion. I realized that she had lied to me about the other people in our lane, and to them about me, simply to keep us from comparing notes on her. I realized that she had made up the story about how her father had come from a very rich family. I realized that the story about her shooting the intruder had also been made up. I realized that she was not twenty-four as she had claimed, but twenty-six. I realized that Anne’s record of reported conflicts with the business partner and landlord was almost undoubtedly her fault. I realized that she had either sold or given away the bicycle I had given her. I realized that the stories of cracked ribs and cancer were both lies. I realized that her story of how she had felt so sorry for that old lady had just been posturing. I realized that all her protestations of affection were completely hollow. I realized that she was gay herself, despite her story of having “jumped a foot in the air” when that woman made a pass at her; it couldn’t have been coincidence that so many of her women friends were gay, and that Ann herself seemed to just light up whenever there was a teenage girl around. I realized that her kittens had not escaped, that she had probably just flushed them down the toilet or put them in a plastic bag and thrown them in the garbage.

At age twenty-five, with a BA in psychology from a prestigious university, having known people from different social milieus, I had actually thought myself worldly. I was keenly attuned to others’ egotism, insecurities, and hypocrisies (being egotistical, insecure, and at times hypocritical myself). Yet I was obviously not attuned to such thoroughgoing and blatant dishonesty, especially if the liar had nothing to gain but admiration. I could not conceive of basking in the admiration of those whom I had misled about my accomplishments, nor could I conceive of anyone else doing so. I must have been under the impression that having a high IQ meant I wouldn’t be outsmarted by others. Looking back, I cringe.

Ever since, I have been a connoissieur, so to speak, of sociopaths.

We’ve all read about serial killers and other vicious criminals, but it’s hard to make the leap from reading about Ted Bundy to realizing that an acquaintance who looks, acts, and sounds normal may in fact be a sociopath.

Unfortunately, most people brought up in a home with loving parents and normal friends are easy prey for a sociopath. They just naturally interpret others’ behavior in the context of their own, so they can’t conceive of anybody that evil and shameless.

Perhaps I should be thankful that I escaped with only a bruised ego, since that is an inevitable part of life anyway. Many people lose their money, careers, and even lives to sociopaths.

The gay Adonis continued to be friendly despite Anne having told him the only reason I kept in touch with him was to hear about her. (I must admit I was curious to hear about her, but I also liked him and would have kept in touch anyway.) The only thing I heard about Anne after I left California was from a newspaper article that he sent me. A female friend of Anne’s with whom she had made an early morning bicycle date had been killed by a hit-and-run driver while waiting for Anne. Anne had evidently made a huge show of wanting to catch the murderer, both with the local police and with the slain girl’s parents. The focus of the article was on Anne. I could only wonder, would they have suspected Anne if they’d known what she was really like? Was she the murderer? I have no idea; but I do know that she was capable of it, and that if she had been the killer, she would have made just such a huge show of outrage and grief over the girl’s death. I also know that she would have enjoyed playing the role of aggrieved friend, and that she would have played it to the hilt.

I said Anne was a textbook sociopath. Because I knew her over an extended period of time (a very long six months), I got to see her exhibit every major trait of sociopath. She was certainly dishonest; every one of her self-professed “accomplishments” was a lie.

Anne was impulsive. Many times when she didn’t show up for a date it was because she had simply found something (or someone) better to do at the last minute.

Anne was not capable of feeling affection. She loudly claimed to feel love, but she didn’t. Her mother, brought up in an orphanage, had never received -- and thus never learned to -- love; this inability was passed along to Anne. 

Anne was completely shameless. A person who felt shame would certainly not have laid claim to all those bogus accomplishments, and would not have told me another girl at the pool had acne on her rear end. 

Anne was manipulative. She certainly succeeded in making me feel admiration and then sympathy for her.

Anne was destructive. I’m sure she killed those kittens. (If she had given them to someone else, she would have simply said so.)

Anne had a glowing self-image unfettered by pedestrian reality. Sociopaths are always their own biggest fans.

Anne was a natural liar and actress. She was without inhibitions, and her blind self-confidence allowed her to always put up a strong front. Sociopaths can be superhuman as well as subhuman.

Anne was certainly the worst back-stabber I had ever met (up to that point). She did her best to poison my relations with our mutual acquaintances.

All these traits can help sociopaths succeed. Sociopaths thrive wherever there is an absence of knowledge about sociopathy.

If you've been hoodwinked by a sociopath already, knowing that others -- like me -- have been similarly suckered should make you a little less embarrassed by your naivete.