Page 56 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Let’s put the possibility of sociopathy—or antisocialpersonality disorder—aside for now. I’m just trying to gather more information for now. No labels, okay?”

I don’t know what I am without the label of a sociopath, so I just shrug.

“Do you spend time after a social interaction hyper-analyzing your behavior and finding flaws in the way you behaved?”

“Yes. All the time. I do it during the interaction too.” I almost add,because I’m a sociopath and I don’t know how to behave normally, but I stop myself.

She asks me a few more questions, and I’m sure, so sure that when this is all done, she’ll tell me that yes, I’m right, I’m a sociopath and there’s no saving my marriage. But when she finishes with her questions, she gives me an empathetic smile and says, “Jane, you don’t have APD. You’re not a sociopath.”

“What?” Panic laps at the edges of my consciousness. “But everything I’ve said—the anger, not knowing how to interact—”

“Yes, I believe you have social anxiety, Jane. Keep in mind I can’t formally diagnose you without doing a proper evaluation in person, but—” She shakes her head. “I’m very sure you don’t have APD. My guess—and I encourage you to come in for a proper evaluation—is that you have social anxiety disorder that manifests in anger toward yourself and others. In fact, I would say that your strong belief that you have APD is a way for yourself to cope with your anxiety—you have intense fear around social interactions and other everyday activities, so you tell yourself that you don’t care, and that you’re perhaps not as good with social interaction as you want to be because you’re a sociopath. It gives you back some semblance of control, thinking that it’s because you’re apathetic and don’t care about others instead of the truth, which is that you’re scared of people.”

“I—what?” I’m shaking my head, my voice unrecognizable. “No, you’re wrong, I took all those tests—”

“Like I said, there are no online tests that have been approved by the DSM-5 that can diagnose APD. Not to mention that self-diagnosis is very hard and discouraged by most health professionals. Evaluating and identifying mental health issues can be a long and confusing process.”

She might as well be speaking Russian. I don’t understand what she’s saying. I can’t. I stare blankly at the computer screen, mouth agape. I’m not a sociopath? But all those thoughts I’ve grown up having, all the anger and malevolence. It feels as though she’s just broken a part of my identity. I want to scream at her.

But underneath the whirlwind of emotions, a small part of me is nodding its head and agreeing. A small voice at the back of my head is sighing with relief that after all this time, it’s finally being understood. My eyes fill with tears, and I take a shuddery breath. I am unmade, shattered, yet I’m also relieved.

I’m not a sociopath. I don’t have APD.

Maybe.

I’m not ready yet to fully embrace this new identity. She could be wrong. Couldn’t she? Of the two of us, she’s the one with a degree in psychology. My mind swims.

I look at Ted. He’s regarding me with concern. “So all this time,” he says, “you thought you were—what,American Psycho?”

“I would encourage you not to use such incendiary terms,” Kathryn says.

Ted closes his mouth. Then he says, “I’m sorry. It’s just kind of a lot.”

“Yes. But proper evaluation is the first step to healing, and I think the two of you have a lot to think about after this session.I’m going to give you some homework. Ted, your homework is to wear a rubber band around your wrist and snap it every time you talk over or talk for Jane. Make a mental note whenever you do it.”

Ted gives a sheepish smile. “I guess I do that quite a bit.”

Kathryn smiles. “And Jane, your homework is to wear a rubber band around your wrist as well—”

I lift my hand toward the phone to show that I already wear one, and she laughs. “Great! What have you been wearing it for?”

My cheeks burn with shame, though why I feel ashamed, I don’t quite understand. Because I’d foolishly thought I could do the work of a trained psychologist by evaluating myself? Because I’d thought that I could control whatever it was I had all on my own? “To uh—control my anger.”

Ted’s mouth drops open. “I thought it was just to tie up your hair.”

If I weren’t so mortified over everything, I would’ve laughed at that.

She nods. “I see. It’s actually very astute of you. But let’s shift the focus so that you snap it whenever you start feeling that fear. Remember, in your case, it might feel like anger, so when you feel angry, snap the rubber band and remind yourself that you’re not actually angry, it’s just anxiety manifesting itself as anger. Over the next few weeks, we’ll use some known cognitive behavioral therapy methods to cope with your anxiety. And some extra homework—I want you to look in the mirror every morning and every evening and say these words out loud:I am not a sociopath. I do not have antisocial personality disorder. I have some anxiety around social interactions, which I will learn to cope with.Okay?”

Everything inside me wants to fight it. I want to rejecteverything she’s said and pretend that none of this has happened, so I can go back to the familiar identity I’ve been wearing all these years. But the burden of that identity is going through life alone, feeling like a complete outsider while everyone else is celebrating life, a party I’m never invited to. And I’m tired of it. I’ve had enough.

I look at Ted and meet his eyes. They’re filled with kindness, sorrow, and a small glimmer of hope. A tentative smile touches the corners of my mouth, and together, we nod.

26

Thalia

My husband is dead, and I am bereft. I am a grieving widow. I am beside myself.

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