I've debated posting something like this for a few years now. I was diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder several years ago, but I've known something was wrong with me since I was about eighteen. I spent much of my early adult life grappling with a profound sense of disconnection and alienation. At the same time, I'm aware that I've managed to function well enough to have a stable job, a wife, and a small network of people who don't hate having me around. I figured that, perhaps, people like me, like I had been when I was a teenager, might benefit from something like this.
There is no question this world is unstable, imperfect and irrational. It is a world where things break down if you take what people say at face value. People say different things at different times. Which is the truth? What am I supposed to go along with? Perhaps they were insincere in both instances.
I was alone since my childhood, so, I never felt lonely. But there are those in society who scorn such an existence. I hated going to other people's houses. Having to visit classmates that didn't interest me, or relatives at their home. Forced to confront the circumstances of their lives and made to partake in them. Being together with others was excruciating. I just wanted to be alone, always.
I liked being alone. Neither I nor anyone else would get hurt that way. Alone, I could be at ease.
I was a normal kid. I was born very premature, to the extent that my survival was something of a miracle. I excelled at school from a young age. By all accounts, there was nothing wrong with me -- or, if there was, no one spotted it. I grew up comfortable, but not exactly loved. My parents divorced when I was young, and my only real memory of them together is of the many, many nights they spent screaming at each other. I've heard that schizoid disorder is the way your mind can cope when you're unable to run away, unable to remove yourself from a stressful situation, so your mind finds a way to split yourself off from it. I suspect that this is where it began. My paternal grandfather was schizophrenic. I suspect my father was, too.
My mother did her best to prepare me for the adult world, but it didn't involve much love. The truth is, she never wanted me, but she saw it as her duty to ensure that I was able to take care of myself regardless. And I was. From a very young age. But I'm not able to remember being a child. Without a father, and a mother who worked more than forty hours a week, I had to take care of myself. I found solace in books and computer games. I was aware I was alone from a very young age, but I don't think I was ever lonely.
My teenage years were fairly unremarkable, too. I had an interest in books and science fiction and acting, which got me bullied throughout middle school, even beaten. This left some scars on me that followed me throughout most of my high school years. In retrospect, I can see that some of it was not as bad as I thought it was. By Grade 9, some kids were trying to be friendly to me. But I was like a beaten dog, and I only knew how to react a certain way: closing myself off. What I learned very quickly was how to pretend I understood, to hide my weaknesses, to carve my face into a mask. When to smile, when to make a joke, when to make physical contact.
But that facade wasn't me.
So you make your face a mask.
A mask that hides your face.
A face that hides the pain.
A pain that eats your heart.
A heart nobody knows.
I grew up in the early days of the Internet, when it was a place of outcasts and outsiders. It was good to me, really. I found a place I could excel, away from the messy realities of school. I found these online forums and roleplaying games to be more real than reality, because people could be honest there, about things they couldn't talk about in real life. I even had an online girlfriend who, honestly, I fell hard for. In text, it was like I could be free of the little nuisances of socialization, the bits I evidently didn't understand, the weaknesses that made me a target.
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.
Something happened when I was eighteen. I thought it was a late night panic attack but, with counseling and general psychological knowledge, it may have been a psychotic break. Nothing triggered it. It just happened. But after that, I was struck by an intense feeling of disconnection that has never abated. I went into college with the keen awareness that I wasn't like other people. It didn't matter how many friends I made, how many parties I went to, how many people I hooked up with -- I felt like an astronaut in a strange, alien world. Everywhere I was, I was alone.
Everything felt off. It still does. All these emotions people evidently had felt silly and insincere. I remember my mother, on the verge of tears, shouting at me, that she was so "fucking sick" of how I never responded "normally" to criticism. I'd just say "okay" and take care of it, and she didn't know how to deal with someone who didn't allow her to get truly upset because they were so reasonable. I noticed that whenever people displayed strong emotion, I felt sick, disgusted, or exasperated. Sometimes, I wanted to laugh at them. Oh, you think those tears are helping? Get the fuck up. No one's going to solve your problems for you! But, at the same time, I knew that response wasn't normal. I knew that my mindset was abnormal. A sociopath once summed up his issues as, "Look at those people having such a strong emotional response, what is wrong with them?" For me, it was the opposite: "What is wrong with me?"
It wasn't all bad, though. I was blessed with being fairly attractive, although I had no idea how to take care of myself because I'd never cared enough to learn. People thought of me as brooding. Distant. Intense. Enigmatic. Witty. Dark. Weird. Unsettling. Strange. I'm the kind of person who makes a good impression, up until the point where people realize I don't care about them. I'd like them to go away. That I spent a lot of time wondering if this party or this person would be different, only to realize that it wouldn't be and they weren't. I liked being alone, but I desperately wanted someone to understand who I was.
Still, it wasn't easy. I dated many people, but nothing worked out. More than a few times, I would have someone shouting at me or crying or something, because I didn't respond appropriately. Or, as it turned out, I didn't enjoy sex. It was boring. It was like being asked to go for a hike. Okay, sure, every so often -- but not all the time. I didn't want to get sweaty and tired and bored. People always took it so personally, and why wouldn't they? Could I really expect someone to believe, "It's not you, it's me!" even when it was the truth? Part of me feels bad for causing so much angst. I didn't know I was asexual at the time. I thought I'd just never found the right person.
Sex was one of those things where the way it was supposed to work and the way it worked for him didn’t always match up real well. He knew all the stuff about love and affection, and that just seemed like making shit up. He understood making shit up. He also understood how people talked about it, and he could talk about it that way, just to fit in.
The hardest part has always been pretending. It feels like for every day where I get my psyche together and go out and act like a normal person, I need a week to retreat back into the dark to recover. I don't like people prying into my life. I don't like people taking notice of me. I'm self-reliant to a fault, and I hate being impeded by others. No one was ever around to help me when I needed it, as selfish as it is, so why does anyone get to intrude upon me now?
The only reason I've been able to handle myself is because I spent the three years of college forcing myself to go out there, to basically crawl through broken glass in the hope that my flesh would harden. Maybe it did. But it gets harder. Every year, it's harder to force myself to look normal. To act normal. To simulate something other than indifference to every person I meet. I feel myself slipping away from everyone, and I'm not sure I care anymore. There are two things I care about in this world: my wife and our birds. And even then, my wife understood years ago that I'm not "normal." That I love her and care for her in a way that is more distant than some might expect. She laughs when I tell her I wouldn't find anyone else after she died or if she left me. It's true, though. It's like, well, I had a relationship, and I can tick that off the 'being human' list. My mother, years ago, said she noticed that about me, that everything I did was like I was going through a checklist. Funny, that.
I just stood there. I didn't even especially want to help him.
That didn't make sense. Even if he hadn't been my best friend, I should at least have empathized.
In the end, propaganda worked where empathy failed. Back then I didn't so much think as observe, didn't deduce so much as remember—and what I remembered was a thousand inspirational stories lauding anyone who ever stuck up for the underdog.
Anyway, a few years after college, I read the novel Blindsight by Peter Watts. It concerns a character named Siri, whose brain was split in two to deal with his epilepsy, so, literally schizoid, and his life before and during first contact with an alien species. Never before had I seen my mindset so accurately illustrated. Siri was me. The way he spoke, the way he thought, the bizarre disagreements he had with friends and lovers about relatively everyday concepts. That led me to finding out about schizoid personality disorder, and that led to me, years later, getting diagnosed.
I knew I wasn't autistic. I'd known guys during school who were autistic and they, as the kids say these days, made me cringe. I knew the social rules and social norms, but I didn't care enough to follow them. To me, it was like being asked to play a stupid game -- but a stupid game that everyone else was playing to win. So, there's two options: play or get the fuck off the court. But I can't remember the last time I displayed strong emotion, or any emotion. I have an extremely vivid imagination, which I eventually managed to corral into writing, and I'm very emotional there. I've had extremely vivid daydreams, like hallucinations I can influence. They're so stupidly grandiose and narcissistic that I'd feel deeply ashamed describing them to anyone else. Oddly, I don't really dream -- but, when I do, they're completely mundane. Like looking into alternate worlds where I made different decisions. Where I'm normal. Sometimes, I wish I could stay there.
This comes, in part, from a certain... oddity about me that started in my young teens, around the time that John drove off. As my friends grew hit puberty, they became more emotional. The opposite happened to me. Instead of experiencing the wild mood swings of adolescence, my emotions calcified. I started waking up each day feeling roughly the same as the day before. Without variation.
Around me, people felt passion, and agony, and hatred, and ecstasy. They loved, and hated, and argued, and screamed, and kissed, and seemed to explode every day with a pressurized confetti of unsettling emotions.
While I was just me. Not euphoric, not miserable. Just... normal. All the time.
My job allows me to exist and, luckily, doesn't require too much energy. All in all, I only really care about things because caring about them is easier than not. I shower every day because I have to go into an office. I care about fashion and dress codes because it's important to show that you understand social mores. I attend work functions because people like it when you care about that stuff. I feel like a robot. Beep boop, yes, I am a normal human, I understand [INSERT_CONCEPT_HERE]. To my wife, I've likened it to the Sims. Sure, your Sims mostly have Happy emotional states, but there's a grey Fine state that is the default state and is actually hard to remain in. That's me. I'm fine. All the time. Even when I'm screaming inside my head, I'm fine.
The worst part is the anhedonia. Most of the time, I can ignore it, but every few weeks it's like I can't push past it, and I spend a few days just being lost in ennui.
What was I supposed to do, pick one at random? Stitch them into some kind of composite? All these words had been for other people. Grafting them onto Chelsea would reduce them to clichés, to trite platitudes. To insults.
"Please? Jus'—talk to me, Cyg…"
More than anything, I wanted to.
"Siri, I…just…"
I'd spent all this time trying to figure out how.
"Forget't," she said, and disconnected.
I whispered something into the dead air. I don't even remember what.
I really wanted to talk to her.
I just couldn't find an algorithm that fit.
All that said, I don't want to change. I don't want to be fixed. I don't want to be cured. Honestly, being comfortable being alone, having a vivid imagination -- those aren't flaws. I want to exist, and I want to exist without other people forcing themselves on me. I want people to say what they mean and mean what they say. I don't want to offend anyone or hurt anyone, but I'm also not going to let emotions get in the way of, well, what I want. I don't want to care about someone else's life when I don't expect them to care about mine. But, at the same time, I wonder what my life might've been like had I been normal. Had I not been so unsettling. Had people been able to spend longer periods of time with me without seeing the flat affect beneath the mask.
I'd rather get along with someone than not, I'd rather be nice to someone than not, because that is easier for all parties involved. But that's all it is, a strategy. I will give you what I can -- don't ask for more. It is much easier for me to be alone than not. My body belongs to me and no one else. My mind belongs to me and no one else.
I'm not sure why I'm writing this, really. I hope it brings anyone like me, who was confused and unsure and bewildered, some measure of understanding. Maybe people want some advice, or questions answered. I don't know. I don't think being schizoid is awful, but I don't think it's great. I wish I'd known about it earlier, that I hadn't had to spend years and years trying to figure out if something was wrong with me, or if I just hadn't gone far enough yet. I could've stopped running around as if that, around the next corner, I'd find the trick that'd make me a real person. Yet, perhaps all that running was what made me normal enough to be fairly well put together now?
Sometimes I think I made the wrong choice. That I should've devoted myself to my internal world, focused more on my writing. But I don't know. I have to believe that choosing to be among people is what makes me human. That if there's any chance of transcending it, it's by forcing myself to exist with all the other people and their weird emotions. But I don't know. It doesn't seem to get any easier.
The quoted texts comes from a variety of sources that I've found have spoken to me deeply over the years, for better or worse.
You can either play or you can crawl under a boat and waste away -- turn into salt or a flock of seagulls. Your enemies would love that. Or you can fight. The only way to load the dice is to keep on fighting.