by M. E. Thomas
It turned out that my officemate had been acquainted with a man she discovered was a sociopath. Rather than live out the sob story of the con artist’s innocent victim, she had maintained a deep and enduring friendship with him. In retrospect, her willingness to regard me as a human being despite her firm belief that I was a sociopath offered me the possibility that I could be understood and accepted as I was. She was proof that not all people with consciences and empathy were appalled by the existence of people like me.
I was actually glad that there was a word for it, that I wasn’t the only one like this. It must be a similar feeling to that of people who discover for themselves that they are gay or transgendered: in their bones, they’d known it all along.
Years had passed from that tentative self-diagnosis to my period of introspection after being fired. Once the word sociopath had entered my consciousness and my initial satisfaction with finding a label had faded, I had treated it as an unimportant oddity, like an interesting but irrelevant quirk, until eventually I forgot it. But as my life crumbled around me, I knew that I couldn’t keep living like I had been before, acknowledging that I was different but ignoring the differences. I was so desperate for answers that I had begun seeing a therapist, but she was nothing more than a thing for me to toy with, and even then, she was too expensive for the limited satisfaction our sessions gave me. But through those therapy sessions, I had remembered that summer internship and that casual diagnosis of “sociopath.” I sensed there were answers about myself there, so I started reading a book that just happened to be available in its entirety online, written by the father of the modern concept of psychopathy, Dr. Hervey Cleckley.
Cleckley, in his groundbreaking book The Mask of Sanity, first published in 1941, presented the profile of the personality he called the psychopath, but which we now commonly refer to as the sociopath. Cleckley explained that a psychopath was extremely difficult to diagnose, because his mental faculties were fully intact, as was his ability to function in society as a seemingly normal human being, even a particularly successful one. Cleckley wrote:
Not only is the psychopath rational and his thinking free of delusions, but he also appears to react with normal emotions. His ambitions are discussed with what appears to be healthy enthusiasm. His convictions impress even the skeptical observer as firm and binding. He seems to respond with adequate feelings to another’s interest in him and, as he discusses his wife, his children, or his parents, he is likely to be judged a man of warm human responses, capable of full devotion and loyalty.
According to Cleckley, psychopaths are antisocials who excel at seeming social—seeming to feel, desire, hope, and love like everyone else. They exist virtually indistinguishable among society. In fact, the psychopath excels in many ways that others do not. Cleckley’s psychopath is uncommonly charming and witty. He is unflappable and eloquent, keeping his cool under pressure. Under this “mask of sanity,” however, is a liar, a manipulator, a person who disregards his obligations with little to no sense of responsibility. He is exciting because he is impulsive, whimsical, and prone to making the same mistake multiple times. His narcissism keeps him from forming any real emotional bonds, and he tends to be promiscuous. His own emotional world is mostly a poor imitation of natural emotions. Cleckley acknowledged that this unique suite of personality traits could suit the psychopath equally well to a career in business as to one in crime.
Nowhere else have I recognized the sociopath inside me more than in Cleckley’s clinical profiles, more than half a century old. From his observations of hundreds of patients, Cleckley distilled what he believed to be sixteen key behavioral characteristics that defined psychopathy. Most of these factors are still used today to diagnose sociopaths/psychopaths and others with antisocial disorders. They include the following:
• Superficial charm and good intelligence
• Absence of delusions and other signs of irrational thinking
• Absence of nervousness or psychoneurotic manifestations
• Unreliability
• Untruthfulness and insincerity
• Lack of remorse and shame
• Inadequately motivated antisocial behavior
• Poor judgment and failure to learn by experience
• Pathologic egocentricity and incapacity for love
• General poverty in major affective reactions
• Specific loss of insight
• Unresponsiveness in general interpersonal relations
• Fantastic and uninviting behavior with drink and sometimes without
• Suicide threats rarely carried out
• Sex life impersonal, trivial, and poorly integrated
• Failure to follow any life plan
If you’ve ever recognized yourself in a horoscope and thought, “Hey, maybe there is something to this astrology business,” then you understand my encounter with Cleckley’s book. Not everything is quite right, but many things are spot-on, and in general, it’s frighteningly accurate. My lack of life direction, my cold treatment of friends, my inability to focus on my job—the psychological pattern underpinning many of my problems was laid bare. I was particularly amazed by his descriptions of his patients, some of whom I shared so much in common with that I felt he could have been writing about me. There was one woman in particular, Anna, whose description seemed like a fictionalized version of myself:
There was nothing spectacular about her, but when she came into the office you felt that she merited the attention she at once obtained. She was, you could say without straining a point, rather good-looking, but she was not nearly so good-looking as most women would have to be to make a comparable impression. She spoke in the crisp, fluttery cadence of the British, consistently sounding her “r’s” and “ing’s” and regularly saying “been” as they do in London. For a girl born and raised in Georgia, such speaking could suggest affectation. Yet it was the very opposite of this quality that contributed a great deal to the pleasing effect she invariably produced on those who met her. Naive has so many inapplicable connotations it is hardly the word to use in reference to this urbane and gracious presence, yet it is difficult to think of our first meeting without that very word coming to mind, with its overtones of freshness, artlessness, and candor.
It’s clear that Cleckley was taken by her. I love the way he describes her idiosyncrasies: the accent, her artlessness, her eternal youthfulness, her attractiveness that seems to be something more than mere beauty, her intelligence, and her charm. These describe me as well. She loves The Brothers Karamazov, but Cleckley later discusses how Anna does not have the highbrow tastes and prejudices that accompany the typical “intellectual” of her education and breeding, treating gossip magazines with the same interest as the music of Russian composers. Again, he could have been writing about me. Cleckley goes on to tell about how Anna quite sincerely taught Sunday school, volunteered for the Red Cross, and engaged in haphazard same-sex liaisons, one time with a nurse after being universally adored during a hospital stay. There were incredible parallels to my own life, from such seemingly insignificant ones like teaching Sunday school or being a model hospital patient to relatively more prominent ones like fluid sexuality. I was floored.
Cleckley does clearly lay out why he believes that Anna fits his criteria, primarily because of her lack of remorse about her lascivious lifestyle, but it’s clear that she is not just a sum of points on a checklist to him. She is a person. And it wasn’t the checklist that I identified so strongly with upon reading Cleckley’s book; it was the people. Even Cleckley acknowledged that the checklist was just a gross generalization of why these people seemed so similar to each other—despite their vast differences in education, background, socioeconomic status, criminal history, etc.—and yet so different from the rest of the world. I could quibble with whether or not I met a criterion like “unreliability,” but I could not deny the remarkable similarities that I shared with Cleckley’s patients.
Cleckley’s boo
k was widely popular, circulating beyond a purely academic or medical audience. He edited the volume several times, making efforts to create as exhaustive a profile as possible of the modern-day psychopath. Cleckley understood that psychopaths and sociopaths, while sometimes or even often engaged in extremely antisocial acts, could also live lives completely undetected, adapting to their surroundings well enough to pass as normal, even to become contributing members of society.
Because Cleckley realized that there were sociopaths in the world who either do not engage in criminal behavior or are too clever to ever get caught, what began as a study of solely male patients in mental institutions became a much larger volume that included women, adolescents, and people who had never been institutionalized. Many of his later subjects, like Anna, had learned to live relatively normal lives within the general populace. From my own experience, I was sure that, had Cleckley peered into the classrooms of today’s law schools and offices of mega law firms, he would have found plenty of viable test subjects.
Now that I knew that I was not alone, that there were people out there much like me, I wanted to find out more about us.
He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention.
—JOHN WILLIAM POLIDORI, The Vampyre
In 1819, John William Polidori wrote a novella called The Vampyre, inspired by a fragment by Lord Byron, which would spark a vampire craze across nineteenth-century Europe and influence Bram Stoker and the modern vampire genre. The title character of Polidori’s novella was based on the wayward Byron himself. The vampire enters London high society and beguiles all who cross his path with his mysterious and contrary manners. Accompanying a young gentleman companion southward through Rome and Greece, he seduces and murders young women, unbeknownst to his companion, only to die himself from an apparent murder. A year later, however, the vampire reappears in London, where he seduces and marries his companion’s sister, leaving her drained of blood on her wedding bed.
At once beautiful and treacherous, the vampire occupies the unique position of the appealing monster. He is far from deranged or wild and, in fact, his manners are superior to those of the people he meets. His demeanor is uncanny and yet beguiling, his eyes hollow but intoxicating. His apparent deficits attract his victims and his peculiarities engage them, while he views them as nothing more than objects. The vampire does not seek his lonely existence; he merely lives it out to its fullest measure, unable to function any other way. He drinks blood because it fulfills him; he toys with people because it amuses him. His soul cannot rest.
The gothic vampire is the sociopath writ large, charismatic and sophisticated, a predator walking among us undetected. His myth dates back to the medieval period and is rooted in Slavic spirituality, based on a clear distinction between the body and the soul. An unclean soul gave rise to the vampire, whose continuing existence was both unnatural and interminable.
Sociopaths have been around for a long time, always at the margins. We exist in every culture. According to a 1976 anthropological study by Jane Murphy, members of the Yoruba tribe in Africa called cold souls arankan, “which means a person who always goes his own way regardless of others, who is uncooperative, full of malice, and bullheaded.” The Yupik-speaking Inuit knew antisocial members of their tribe as kunlangeta, of whom it was said “his mind knows what to do but he does not do it”; he is someone who “repeatedly lies and cheats and steals things and … takes sexual advantage of many women—someone who does not pay attention to reprimands and who is always being brought to the elders for punishment.” This concept of an individual who has the mental capacity to understand social norms but refuses to follow them is the key to the clinical diagnosis for modern-day sociopathy.
So, while it’s clear that people like me have existed throughout the many cultures of the world, our modern society likes to apply clear labels to people: Are you a sociopath, or something else? In the science fiction film Blade Runner, the sociopath analogues are the replicants, organic androids who have escaped to Earth and are hunted by Harrison Ford in his nuclear-dusty postapocalyptic world. So human-seeming are the replicants that they can be detected only through a set of emotionally provocative questions. In the movie, Harrison Ford can’t resist the charms of Sean Young’s porcelain skin and perfectly heart-shaped lips, even knowing she is a manufactured thing—that she can feel no empathy despite what he can see in her big, soulful eyes.
I remember watching the movie as a young girl, captivated by Sean Young’s quivering poise and futuristic office attire. Even then I felt sure I could survive pretty well in their harsh world, that all the scattered neon and miscellaneous steam would make it a hard enough place to live that all the weaklings would be relegated to subsistence living, and the strong ones like me would thrive. I imagined wheeling and dealing in pidgin Chinese, darting through alleyways in my dinged-up hovercraft. The irony, of course, is that in my adulthood I would willingly subject myself to very similar diagnostic questions—that I too would be clinically outed by tests designed to measure my lack of humanity.
The Blade Runner example is an interesting comparator because the emphasis is on identification, not diagnosis. The replicants are truly “other” and presumed to be subhuman; therefore there are no ethical constraints on what becomes of them, despite evidence that their internal worlds may have been just as rich as those of the humans. Similarly, even health professionals like Martha Stout, Harvard Medical School faculty member and author of The Sociopath Next Door, speak in terms of “identifying” sociopaths, as opposed to diagnosing. The message seems clear: These people are sociopaths, they aren’t people who have sociopathy. Diagnosis is for people for whom there is a treatment. Because there is no known effective treatment for sociopaths, there is just the question of what to do with the sociopath problem. In Blade Runner, society had come to a definitive decision of what fate would befall its empathy-free creations.
The sociopath problem for our society is, how do we keep sociopaths from acting in antisocial ways? Before society can even begin to discuss solutions to that problem, they need a reliable way to identify sociopaths. Before psychologists can identify them, however, they must be able to understand them. And to be able to understand them, they must be able to identify them. One psychologist has illustrated the tautology in the following way: “Why has this man done these terrible things? Because he is a psychopath. And how do you know that he is a psychopath? Because he has done these terrible things.”
It’s a classic chicken-and-egg dilemma that has prompted countless criticisms of the most popular diagnostic criteria. All diagnostic tools are based on the observable traits of people who have been diagnosed as sociopaths, which, apart from being rather circular, introduces the risk of biases that might skew which traits get included or not included. Of course there must be some starting place. Cleckley and others observed that some traits occurred more commonly in his patients than in the general populace. Once that recurring group of traits had a name, researchers could try to figure out if they all had a common cause, if they were related to other identifiable groups of traits, how many people had that group of traits, and what kinds of things those people got up to compared to the larger population. But Cleckley was well aware that his checklist was just his own poor approximation of the essenc
e of sociopathy, and consequently was not infallible or even all-inclusive—a humility that I sometimes feel is lacking with researchers of sociopathy.
The current primary tool for identifying psychopaths (and, by association, sociopaths) is the PCL-R (Psychopathy Checklist–Revised), developed by Dr. Robert D. Hare, professor emeritus of forensic psychology at the University of British Columbia and generally considered the primary authority on criminal psychopathy. “Science cannot progress without reliable and accurate measurement of what it is you are trying to study,” Hare explains. With a research assistant he compiled a list of twenty traits that he noticed recurring among the prison population he was studying: lack of empathy and remorse, megalomania, manipulation, charm, self-interestedness, impulsivity, proficiency at lying, along with criminal-specific traits such as juvenile delinquency, revocation of conditional release, and criminal versatility. He instructed other psychologists giving the assessment to award two points if a trait was present, one if they were unsure or it applied somewhat, and zero if it wasn’t. The test was reliable, in that repeat assessments resulted in approximately the same score, but its validity has been heavily criticized.
Validity is a measure of how well a diagnostic tests what it is meant to test—in this situation, how accurately the PCL-R identifies psychopaths. The PCL-R has been criticized for being exclusively based on the prison population. Hare himself has admitted that it was done solely for convenience: “Prisoners are easy. They like meeting researchers. It breaks up the monotony of their day. But CEOs, politicians …” In a widely publicized scandal, Hare threatened to sue two psychologists who warned in a paper that the checklist was increasingly being mistaken for a complete definition of psychopathy, which is a broader personality construct that includes deceitfulness, impulsivity, and recklessness, but not necessarily physical aggression or illegal acts. The authors contended that Dr. Hare’s checklist warps that concept by overemphasizing criminal behavior. Their article reflects the growing consensus that sociopathy does not equate to criminality. Nor has Hare defended why each trait on the checklist is scored exactly the same. It’s not immediately obvious why a trait like lack of empathy should earn exactly as many points as something seemingly less significant like superficial charm. There is also the question of what defines this (or any) personality disorder, a person’s actions or her interior motivations. While a case history of bad decision-making is easy to evaluate, it’s harder to truly understand another person’s modes of thought.