Why aren’t we all sociopaths?

Reblogging this for purely cathartic reasons A few days ago I found myself saying to the *one person* who should know not to ever speak for me or analyze my relationships, what is included here. He finally stopped when I said: “He is the rapist. I am the victim. My childhood ended on the living room floor when I was ten years old. I don’t give a FUCK about his feelings.”

elle cuardaigh


In my book, I make no secret of the fact my adoptive brother “Keith” was (and is) a depraved individual. For those who haven’t read The Tangled Red Thread, here are some highlights. In fact, I’ll throw in a few things I didn’t mention before:

  • He enjoyed abusing animals and would do so whenever he could get away with it.
  • He held a clothesline to our mother’s throat and told her how it easy it would be to kill her.
  • He destroyed things by treating everything like it was junk, then complained it was broken.
  • He hit me with his fist, numerous times, once in the face.
  • He threw a dead animal at me.
  • He nearly killed an acquaintance by slamming his head in a car door, over and over.
  • He routinely stole our parents’ things to sell them, or break them, or just keep them.
  • He lied continuously, or…

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