“Antisocial personality disorder,” someone in the back said.
“Correct. That’s where we find our sociopaths and psychopaths, but we’ve already covered antisocial personality disorder, so let’s move lower on the spectrum and focus on—”
“Wait! Professor Dawson?” Kyle called out. “Can I just ask one question?”
“Sure.” Riley stopped writing and turned around.
“I still don’t get the difference between a sociopath and psychopath. I know both would be diagnosed with an antisocial personality disorder, but I’m not sure how you’d tell them apart.”
Riley put her marker down and moved closer to the class, trying to come up with a quick example that wouldn’t waste much time. “Think of a road-rage incident. Say you’re driving on the highway. The speed limit is sixty-five, and a guy is doing forty in front of you in the left lane. You flash him. A normal person would realize he’s not following the rules of the road and would show consideration by moving into the slow lane. The narcissist wouldn’t give a damn that he’s holding up traffic and annoying people. He’ll make you go around him. He might even sneer and give you the finger as you pass him.”
Riley walked over to Kyle’s desk. “Now, if you flash a sociopath, you might incite his rage and end up in a car chase. He might decide to run you off the road, jump out with a bat, and bash your car. But if he’s a psychopath with time to kill, he might quietly follow you home, wait for you to go in the house, then slash your tires when no one’s looking.”
“That’s scary,” Kyle said.
“Anti-social people are. That’s why it’s better not to engage people on the road. You never know when you’re dealing with a mentally unstable person.” Riley gave him a thoughtful sideways glance. “Sociopath or psychopath…which one is more dangerous?”
“Sociopath,” he said.
“Guess again.”
“The psychopath,” Madison called out.
“Thank God for Madison.” Riley walked over to her desk. “Tell us why?”
Madison shrugged. “Because…well, they’re both dangerous, but based on your scenario, the psychopath shows more self-control, so that would make him better at…hiding who he is?”
“Exactly. A sociopath is easier to spot. He’s the hot-tempered guy with a chip on his shoulder, the one who goes from zero to eighty if you look at him the wrong way. You might say he wears his disorder on his sleeve. He’s the one people can point to and say, ‘Stay away from that guy. He’s crazy.’”
After walking back to her desk, Riley folded her arms and leaned against it. “Sociopaths are also more likely to live on the fringe of society. Unlike the psychopaths, who are basically born without a conscience, sociopaths are often influenced by environmental factors. Children learn by example, right? They’re more likely to have been raised around volatile people who have maladaptive coping skills, poor impulse control, and low self-esteem. And because their behavior is erratic and impulsive, they leave behind evidence of the crimes they commit and usually get caught. But in all fairness to sociopaths, some do show remorse for what they’ve done in a fit of rage. Of course, by then, someone’s already been hurt and they’re in jail.”
Riley gestured toward Madison. “So yes, what makes the psychopath more dangerous is that he blends beautifully into mainstream society and hides in plain sight. He’s as clever and charming as he is cold and calculating. And because the psychopath is a severe narcissist—popularly referred to as the narcopath—he isn’t capable of remorse. He feels nothing for his victims, only the satisfaction he derives from destroying them. However, he is adept at reading people, at pretending to feel in order to manipulate and exploit others.”
“Is that why it can take so long to catch a serial killer?”
“Absolutely. Deliberate and methodical, they plan well and cover their tracks. The good news is that most psychopaths aren’t violent criminals. The majority, especially the highly intelligent ones, are smart enough to find socially acceptable ways of channeling their sadistic urges.” Riley looked around and smiled. “What careers that might appeal to a psychopath?”
Hands started going up, and Riley pointed to a student in the back.
“How about law enforcement? You know, not the good cops who want to help and protect people, but the ones who join the force to bully and brutalize people and get paid for it.”
“That’s a great example.”
Another hand went up. “How about becoming a sniper for the CIA? Or maybe joining the military, not to serve your country but because you want to run around legally killing people.”
“Good one.” Riley nodded. “Those who commit war crimes.”
“For that matter,” Madison joined in, “what about people who enjoy killing animals? Like the guy at the slaughterhouse who really loves his job, or some nerdy dentist whose idea of the perfect vacation is going on a canned hunt to shoot a retired circus tiger—you know, just to experience the power and thrill of watching something die.”
“I agree with you on that one,” Riley said. “In fact, I have a theory about that. You know how pedophiles gravitate toward jobs that put them in close contact with children? Well, I think many covert psychopaths gravitate toward the sciences. If we were to research the personal histories of, say, vivisectionists—those scientists who conduct often gruesome surgical experiments on animals—I’m certain you’d find that they were the kids who enjoyed tormenting kittens and pulling the wings off butterflies.”
Groans and murmurs of agreement filled the room, but that was Riley’s greatest fear; being discovered and ending up at the hands of a merciless vivisectionist eager to dissect and mutilate his first werewolf. She hated to think about animals in laboratories, not to mention those caught in steel-jaw traps, the remains of which now sat in black plastic bags in her garage. “What other more ‘gentlemanly’ occupations might entice the psychopath?”
Josh raised his hand. “How about white-collar criminals, like the ones who operate Ponzi schemes and rip people off?”
“Excellent!” Riley said. “Those are the ruthless businessmen and unconscionable CEOs who’ll destroy anything and anyone in order to gain wealth and power.”
“Don’t forget politicians,” Madison added. “Evil rulers like Hitler.”
“And lots of other politicians in recent history,” Riley said facetiously. “Think of how many would destroy people and communities, pollute our environment, destroy the earth itself to gain power and wealth.”
Riley walked back to the board with her marker. “So, Kyle…have we answered your question?”
“Yeah, thanks, Professor.”
“Then let’s move back down the spectrum to plain ole narcissism, maybe somewhere in the middle, where we find the good narcissists.”
Josh laughed. “Is there such a thing?”
“Well, they’re good in the sense that they don’t intentionally hurt people. These are the self-centered people we may know socially or in the workplace. They’re the ones who don’t care who they step on to get what they want. They’re the pot-stirrers, the ones who form cliques and won’t think twice about ruining the reputations of those who refuse to be part of their entourage. If you suck up to them, they’ll like you. If you oppose them, they’ll sabotage you. Occasionally they might feel a twinge of guilt over how they treat people. But they can’t help it. It’s just who they are. And they know it.
“Their sense of self and their self-esteem is dependent on others, and if you’ve done your reading, you’ll know what we call this?”
“Narcissistic supply,” Kyle said.
“Yes. They need people to supply their egos. Even in romance, the narcissist wants most to be adored. If it’s a woman, she’ll look for someone to put her on a pedestal and is likely to marry for money and prestige.” It had occurred to Riley on several occasions that her own adoptive mother, Amelia, was a total narcissist. “And similarly, the narcissistic man will value a trophy wife over love. Either that,
or he’ll marry the woman whose world revolves around him. We always say that narcissists are self-absorbed, whereas their ideal mates are other-absorbed.”
“That’s so superficial,” Kyle said.
“Narcissists are superficial. They’re basically empty inside—certainly not the type to curl up with a book and enjoy their own company for any length of time. They socialize well and may even be the life of the party, but they rarely develop deep emotional bonds. So try to avoid falling in love with one. You’ll be swept off your feet, but unless you have a lot to offer, they’re likely to get bored and go off in search of someone else to dazzle and wow with their beauty and brilliance.”
Ashley, a fidgety C-student who rarely contributed to class discussions and spent more time inspecting her manicure and sneaking peeks at her phone, raised her hand. “Would that be like ghosting someone?”
“What’s that?”
Everyone laughed at Riley.
“You know,” Ashley said, “it’s when you lose interest in someone and block them on social media or stop responding to their texts and phone calls—you ghost them.”
“Ah. I’ve learned something new today. Yes, in that case, ghosting counts.”
“I’ve done that to guys,” Ashley admitted.
I bet you have, Riley thought, and looked over to see Madison rolling her eyes. Riley winked at her and headed back to the board. “Along the spectrum we also find our brainy narcissists and our somatic narcissists. The brainy ones would be those who see themselves as intellectually superior to everyone. Take, for instance, the brilliant surgeon with horrible bedside manners. Behind his back his colleagues might say, ‘he thinks he’s God.’ And you might think he’s God, too, considering your life is in his hands. He’ll pride himself on his ability to perform that operation better than any other surgeon but has a hard time emotionally connecting with patients.”
Josh snickered. “Who would you go with, Professor Dawson? The mediocre surgeon who cares deeply about his patients but has a fifty-fifty survival rate…or the narcissist who hasn’t lost a patient yet?”
Riley laughed good-naturedly. “You got me there, Josh. I’d have to go with the narcissist if my life depended on it, but I like to think some highly competent surgeons out there also have the capacity to put themselves in their patients’ shoes.”
Ashley, who was brushing her hair with her fingers, raised her hand again. “What’s a somatic narcissist?”
You are, Riley wanted to say. “Those are the body-obsessed ones, who live at the gym and the juice bars. I’m not saying they all are, but you’ll find a good many of them hanging out there.” The students laughed and Riley grinned. “Their self-image is completely tied to how they look on the outside. They’re the ones always snapping selfies and catching glimpses of themselves in mirrors. Or the ones driving cars they can’t afford and maxing out their credit cards on the latest fashions. For them, it’s all about appearance and presentation.”
A male student next to Josh whispered something, and they both cracked up.
“By all means, guys, share the humor,” Riley said. “We talk about a lot of heavy things in this class. A little comic relief is always appreciated.”
Josh turned beet red, and both of them looked down. Ashley, who was back to multitasking, looked up from her phone and sucked her teeth. “He said somatic narcissists are probably the ones who like mirrors and cameras in the bedroom.”
Riley smiled at them. “I didn’t want to go there, but since you did…when it comes to sex, narcissists care less about emotional intimacy and more about performance. They want you to walk away thinking they’re the best you’ve ever had.”
“Yuck.” Madison had a look of disgust.
“What makes them become that way?” Kyle asked.
“It’s not so much a matter of becoming narcissistic as it is growing out of it,” Riley said. “From the time we’re born and throughout early childhood, we go through an egocentric phase. And again, if you’ve done your reading, you’ll tell me what it is.”
“Primary narcissism,” they called out in unison.
Riley nodded. “I can’t tell you how many pregnant teenagers I’ve worked with whose excuse for having a baby was that they wanted someone to love them. The sad truth, though, is that babies don’t love us. They need to be loved, and by being loved they learn how to love. Babies and toddlers just want their needs met. They want to be fed, warmed, cuddled, entertained, protected. It takes them a while to experience empathy the way healthy adults do. They don’t care that their crying in the middle of the night will disturb the precious sleep their parents need in order to adequately function at work the next day. They only care about themselves. This is normal, when you’re one or two. Not so much when you’re twelve or twenty.”
Riley paused while a few students laughed. “You think it’s funny, but this is where narcissists get stuck. I’m assuming you’ve all taken developmental psychology, so you’ve probably seen these terms.” She went back to the board and wrote object constancy. “To remind you, the object refers to the mother or significant other.” Riley went back to her desk and sat on the edge of it. “Anyone want to refresh our memories?”
Kyle raised his hand. “It has to do with a child’s social bonds early in life…with learning to see the parent as a whole person, accepting the bad with the good, in order to form a stable or, well, I guess a constant image of the person.”
“Nicely put, Kyle. And not just a constant image of others, but of ourselves, so that when something or someone hurts us, we still maintain our self-esteem and internal sense of who we are. Babies and toddlers can’t do this. They see things as either all good or all bad. This, as you probably know, is called splitting. It’s an immature defense mechanism. If I’m two years old and Mommy buys me that toy I want, my thinking might go like this: Mommy bought me a toy. That means I’m a good girl. She must love me. I love my Mommy, too. And if she doesn’t buy me that toy, maybe because she can’t afford it or because the line in the store is too long and she needs to rush home to cook dinner, my thinking will switch to, Mommy doesn’t love me. She must think I’m bad. I hate her.”
The class cracked up, and Riley shook her head. “Believe it or not, this is how adult narcissists think.”
Riley walked down the aisle and stopped in front of Kyle. “If I love you, and you do something that pisses me off, I may get really angry, but I still love you. Or it’s possible that I don’t like you at all and can’t stand your company, but can still respect your talents and give credit where credit’s due. Narcissists can’t do this,” Riley moved away and looked at the others. “They continue to split people into all good or all bad…perfect or imperfect. If you’re not with me, you’re against me. If things go my way, life is great. If they don’t, life completely sucks. There’s no in-between with them.
“So then narcissists are immature?”
“Of course they are! They reach physical and intellectual maturity, but emotionally they’re all children.”
“Because of the parent?” Josh asked.
“Everything has genetic predispositions, but yes, it’s usually because a parent can’t properly bond with a child. Obviously, narcissistic parents are likely to raise narcissistic children—and believe me, it’s on the rise! If you want to laugh at a narcissistic family, just watch the Netflix comedy series Schitt’s Creek.”
“Oh, man, that show’s hilarious!” someone yelled out.
Everyone started talking, exchanging comments across the room, and Riley had to clap her hands to make them quiet down. “A funny show, but not so funny in real life. If any of you plan to raise children, just remember that idealizing and over-evaluating them is just as harmful as always criticizing and under-evaluating them. Kids are smart. They know what their strengths and weaknesses are. So pay attention, get to know who they are as individuals, and help them foster a stable image of you and of themselves. Otherwise, you’ll end up raising either a narcissistic or a hi
ghly anxious child with low self-esteem.” It really was a wonder she herself, having been raised by Amelia and Michael Dawson, wasn’t narcissistic. She’d gone the other way, dealing with shame, anxiety, and self-doubt. But then, what werewolf wouldn’t?
Riley looked at the clock. “We have to stop here,” she said, and noticed a worried look on Ashley’s face. She was sitting sideways in her chair, legs crossed, one foot bouncing as she nervously tapped her pen against her notebook. “Does that mean that having any narcissistic traits is a bad thing?”
Riley had to keep from smiling. “We probably all fall at the very low end. There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in yourself. Nothing’s wrong with going through periods of self-centeredness in order to focus on our careers and personal goals. Sometimes, being ‘full of ourselves’ enables us to persevere in the face of rejection and criticism, right? But if you find yourself using people and not really caring that you hurt them, then you might have a problem. Anyway, I’ll see you next time, guys,” she said. “Study hard for that final.”
Madison passed by the desk on her way out. “You were supposed to show us how a dangerous narcissist would operate in a drama triangle.”
“I know. Maybe after the exam, if we have time.”
Drama triangles…Riley pushed away the thought. Deep down she knew she had just put herself in one. Against her better judgment, she was determined to become a rescuer, the answer to Edy’s prayers—a four-legged guardian angel who would victoriously save the victims from the perpetrator. But if she didn’t watch her tail, she herself might join the ranks of victim, her pelt nailed to the wall of a barn.
Chapter Seven
Riley sat at her desk staring at the three pills inside the prescription bottle. She couldn’t risk a repeat of last week. It horrified her to think she might lose control again and not be able to get Fiona out of the office in time. More horrifying was the thought of Fiona seeing her shift and running out in a fit of hysteria. Another twenty years would pass before they bumped into each other again. Riley shook out one pill and broke it in two. That would be enough to take the edge off and keep her head level. She washed it down with what was left of her lemonade and tossed the bottle into her desk drawer. A bottle of perfume was in there, too, and she gave herself a spritz before slamming the drawer shut and drumming her fingers on the desk.
Coyote Blues Page 15