Animals and machines

I do not hunt. I do not, even, enjoy fishing. In fact, if I were to rely upon fishing for a source of food, I would probably starve to death. Wild animals seem to avoid me. Domesticated animals, seem to love me for some reason. I cannot explain why, they just do.

Angry, nasty dogs will eat food out of my hands, or lick me affectionately. Perhaps they understand that I have no fear for their antics. Perhaps I emit a pheromone that only they can detect.

Cats, for some reason, adore me. Cats will go out of their way to greet me, to be near me, to share their kills with me, as if I should be a proud parent. I am not. I do not understand why I should delight in a still warm creature laying dead or dying by someone else's hands at my bed, door, or wherever. The blood, entrails, feathers and the like I find messy. Disgusting.

I hate Biology. I always have. I have always held a firm belief that the stuff that happens inside of a body ought to remain there. I hate needles. I nearly faint at the sight of my own blood. I could not even tell you my blood type. Even as I type this I feel a little light headed.

To me the body is like a car, or a machine. It performs a purpose. It is clean and clinical, and when it can no longer serve that purpose it is discarded like a husk, a shell, and another replaces it. Or not. It depends on the requirements of the job, I suppose. Perhaps I need to think about this more.

Lack of empathy

My lack of empathy can sometimes be an advantage. I do not fall for the spiels that salesmen present me with. Or that door-to-door people like to use. Their tactics are wasted on me. They are trained to keep talking at you, to build familiarity, until you crack and buy whatever they are peddling. They could be selling oxygen, and I would not buy it. I can see too much of me within them. I think they can see it too, to some degree.

Small children cannot blackmail me with their emotional games. I can withstand crying, tantrums, pleas, begging, and the myriad of other games that children like to attempt. Parents choose not to leave their kids with me, and for that I am rather relieved. It is probably in the best interest of the child to remain as far aware from me as possible. I am not a responsible adult as far as that is concerned I can sleep soundly at night knowing someone else is worrying about these things.

Except that is a lie. I do not sleep soundly. I lie awake at night, working out solutions to mathematical problems that no one else would think about. Or else I fall into terrible nightmares to the point where I wake up either screaming, or I find myself with a hurt wrist or fist from having punched the wall next to my bed in some kind of slumbering rage. Perhaps it is best that I do not remember those dreams. Or maybe I need to hunt them down like a wounded animal, dissect them, and find out what they really mean.

Perhaps there is something wrong

There is perhaps something wrong with me in a fundamental way. Or perhaps the problem is with other people. I have not ruled out either alternative. I cannot see how I can.

I do not strive for what other people strive for. I do not long for what they long for. I do not seek fame, fortune, or riches. They would make the passing of my existence easier, there is no doubting that, but they seem to matter very little to me. I should probably care, pay more attention to such things, but it seems simpler and easier to just exist and allow these things to simply pass me by.

As every day goes by these things begin to matter less and less, to the point where I feel I matter less and less. I do not mind this. It does not concern me in the least. It probably should, but my emotional agnosticism washes over me and I feel oblivious, immune, and disinterested.

There is probably something I should be doing to fit into the rest of what you call humanity, but I simply cannot be bothered.

You are not alone

I have no idea what I am. Am I a sociopath? A psychopath? Something more or something less?

These terms are misleading, and meaningless, to me at the moment. And, to be honest, always have been. I am not sure how you can really pigeonhole someone like me. But I am not sure how you can pigeonhole anyone. I guess it just helps us to identify who we love/hate/ignore/whatever. I am not sure I even understand those things.

I have no empathy. Maybe that is not true in an absolute way, but I do not believe in absolutes, anyway. Everything is a shade of grey.

Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I have no empathy towards others. I have tried. I have wept at friends' funerals, laughed at peoples jokes, but I simply do not care. I am not sure exactly why I should care.

Other people seem alien to me. I cannot even look into their eyes. They embarrass me. How can I even be connected to these things? I can match a gaze, shake a firm hand, but those things seem as socially relevant to me as playing cards or using a roundabout. They simply do not matter.

This is the beginning of who I am. I am not sure why I am doing this, other than to try to tell others like me that they are not alone...