Sociopath: A Memoir

Introduction

My name is Patric Gagne and I am a sociopath. I am a passionate mother and wife. I am an engaging therapist. I am extremely charming and well-liked. I have lots of friends. I am a member of a country club. I throw parties for every occasion you can imagine. I live in a nice house. I am a writer. I like to cook. I vote. I make people laugh. I have a dog and a cat, and I wait in carpool lines next to other women with dogs and cats.

On the surface I resemble almost every other average American woman. Social media confirms my existence as a happy mommy and loving partner whose posts are borderline narcissistic. Your friends would probably describe me as nice. But guess what?

I can’t stand your friends.

I’m a liar. I’m a thief. I’m emotionally shallow. I’m mostly immune to remorse and guilt. I’m highly manipulative. I don’t care what other people think. I’m not interested in morals. I’m not interested, period. Rules do not factor into my decision-making. I’m capable of almost anything.

Sound familiar?

If you picked up this book, I’m willing to bet it might. You, too, could be one of the estimated fifteen million people in America believed to be sociopaths. Or you could know one of the millions more whose personalities are thought to reside on the sociopathic spectrum. And we’re not talking strictly criminals. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, mail carriers… Sociopaths are hiding everywhere, in plain sight. All you need to do is start looking.

The looking started early for me. As a child, while other kids in my neighborhood were riding bikes and having playdates with friends, I was reading mysteries. True crime, mostly. I was fascinated by the darkness in people. What is it that makes them evil? What is it that makes them capable? I wanted to know.

So when I stumbled across the word sociopath, I thought I had my answer. I’d heard the term before. But what did it mean? What exactly is a sociopath? I assumed the dictionary would tell me. Yet when I reached for my battered, yellowing 1980 Funk & Wagnalls copy, I discovered the word wasn’t there.

Thinking it was a mistake, I went into my mother’s office and opened another dictionary. Hers was a newer edition. Sociopath was sure to be there. Except it wasn’t. I saw the place where it should have been—right between sociology and sock—but the word was missing. It was as if it didn’t exist. But I knew better. I had read it in books. I had seen it on the news. I had heard it at school. I had written it in my journal. I knew the definition of sociopath was out there somewhere. I just had to find it.

In retrospect, it all makes sense. As a doctor of psychology, I can’t help but marvel at the cunning genius of the subconscious mind, why we’re drawn to certain subjects and indifferent toward others. According to Freud, nothing happens by accident. But you don’t need a PhD to know why I chose this field. You don’t have to understand Freud to grasp the connection. You don’t have to believe in fate to see my path could never have led anywhere else.

The red flags were there from the beginning. I knew as early as seven that something was off. I didn’t care about things the way other kids did. Certain emotions—like happiness and anger—came naturally, if somewhat sporadically. But social emotions—things like guilt, empathy, remorse, and even love—did not. Most of the time, I felt nothing. So I did bad things to make the nothingness go away. It was like a compulsion.

Had you asked me back then, I would have described this compulsion as a pressure, a sort of tension building in my head. It was like mercury slowly rising in an old-fashioned thermometer. At first it was barely noticeable, just a blip on my otherwise peaceful cognitive radar. But over time it would get stronger. The quickest way to relieve the pressure was to do something undeniably wrong, something I knew would absolutely make anyone else feel one of the emotions I couldn’t. So that’s what I did.

As a child, I didn’t realize there were other options. I didn’t know anything about emotion or psychology. I didn’t understand that the human brain has evolved to function empathically, or that the stress of living without natural access to feeling is believed to be one of the causes of compulsive acts of violence and destructive behavior. All I knew was that I liked doing things that made me feel something, to feel anything. It was better than nothing.

Now that I’m an adult, I can tell you why I behaved this way. I can point to research examining the relationship between anxiety and apathy, and how stress associated with inner conflict is believed to subconsciously compel sociopaths to behave destructively. I can postulate that the pressure I experienced was almost certainly a negative reaction to my lack of feeling, that my urge to act out was most likely my brain’s way of trying to jolt itself into some semblance of normal. But none of this information was easy to find. I had to hunt for it.

I am still hunting.

Sociopath is a mysterious word. Its origin is based in century-old science, but it’s since been misappropriated to cover all manner of sin. There is no singular definition for the term, not anymore. The word, much like the people it represents, has become something of a paradox. A shape-shifting modifier whose meaning is often assigned via vitriol and grievance, sociopath is a word that evokes far more emotion than it does analysis. And why is that?

Why does the word sociopath make people feel more than it makes them think? Ironically, it’s what I wanted to know long before I was diagnosed. So I made it my mission to find out.

This book is the story of that mission, one that I was driven to write because the lived experience of sociopathy deserves to be illustrated. To be clear, I don’t want to minimize the severity of this disorder. Nor do I want to romanticize it. Sociopathy is a perilous mental condition, the symptoms, causes, and treatments for which need research and clinical attention. But this is precisely why I wanted to share my story: so individuals affected by sociopathy might receive the help they have needed for far too long. And—perhaps more importantly—that other sociopaths might see themselves reflected in a person who has more to offer than just darkness.

Of course, not everyone will relate to my experience. It is by pure luck that I am able to tell it. It was luck that I was born into a world where I would be afforded almost every privilege imaginable. The truth, I am well aware, is that my life would have gone very differently if my race, my class, or my gender were otherwise. It was luck that, in part, set me on a course to unpack the mystery of my condition and build a life where I have been fortunate enough to help others. Indeed, it is lucky that this book exists at all. And it is lucky that I have come to understand the value of relatability and representation.

Most sociopaths aren’t like the characters in movies. They don’t resemble the serial murderers in Killing Eve or Dexter, and they aren’t similar to the one-dimensional antagonists many crime novels suggest. They’re more complex than the fictionalized examples presented in The Sociopath Next Door. Diagnosing them requires more than the twenty-question sociopath tests in glossy magazines, and understanding them cannot be done using sociopath tutorials on YouTube.

Think you know a sociopath? I’ll bet you’re right. But I’ll also bet it’s the last person you suspect. Contrary to popular belief, sociopaths are more than their personality markers. They are children seeking understanding. They are patients hoping for validation. They are parents looking for answers. They are human beings in need of compassion. But the system is failing them. Schools aren’t recognizing them. Professionals aren’t treating them. They quite literally have nowhere to go for help.

Representation matters. I offer my story because it illustrates the truth no one wants to admit: that darkness is where you least expect it. I am a criminal without a record. I am a master of disguise. I have never been caught. I have rarely been sorry. I am friendly. I am responsible. I am invisible. I blend right in. I am a twenty-first-century sociopath. And I’ve written this book because I know I’m not alone.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Honest Girl

Whenever I ask my mother if she remembers the time in second grade when I stabbed a kid in the head with a pencil, her answer is the same:

Vaguely.

And I believe her. Because so much about my early childhood is vague. Some things I remember with absolute clarity. Like the smell of the trees at Redwood National Park and our house on the hill near downtown San Francisco. God, I loved that house. I can still remember the forty-three steps from the ground floor to my room on the fifth, and the chairs in the dining room I would climb to steal crystals from the chandelier. Other things, however, aren’t so clear. Like the first time I snuck into my neighbor’s house when they weren’t home. Or where I got the locket with the L inscribed on it.

The locket contains two black-and-white photos I’ve never bothered to remove, and I still can’t help staring at them. Who were these people? Where did they come from? I wish I knew. I guess it’s possible I found the locket on the street, but it’s far more likely that I stole it.

I started stealing before I could talk. At least, I think I did. I don’t remember the first time I took something, just that by the time I was six or seven I had an entire box full of things I’d stolen in my closet.

Somewhere in the archives of People magazine there is a photo of Ringo Starr holding me as a toddler. We’re standing in his backyard—not far from my birthplace in Los Angeles, where my father was an executive in the music business—and I am literally stealing the glasses off his face. Certainly, I was not the first child to ever play with a grown-up’s glasses. But based on the spectacles currently perched on my bookshelf, I’m pretty sure I was the only one to swipe a pair from a Beatle.

To be clear: I wasn’t a kleptomaniac. A kleptomaniac is a person with a persistent and irresistible urge to take things that don’t belong to them. I suffered from a different type of urge, a compulsion brought about by the discomfort of apathy, the nearly indescribable absence of common social emotions like shame and empathy. But, of course, I didn’t understand any of this back then. All I knew was that I didn’t feel things the way other kids did. I didn’t feel guilt when I lied. I didn’t feel compassion when classmates got hurt on the playground. For the most part, I felt nothing. And I didn’t like the way that nothing felt. So I did things to replace the nothingness with… something.

It would start with an impulse to make that nothingness stop, an unrelenting pressure that expanded to permeate my entire self. The longer I tried to ignore it, the worse it got. My muscles would tense, my stomach would knot. Tighter. Tighter. It was claustrophobic, like being trapped inside my brain. Trapped inside a void.

My conscious reactions to apathy started out trivial. Stealing wasn’t something I necessarily wanted to do. It just happened to be the easiest way to stop the tension. The first time I made this connection was in first grade, sitting behind a girl named Clancy.

The pressure had been building for days. Without knowing exactly why, I was overcome with frustration and had the urge to do something violent. I wanted to stand up and flip over my desk. I imagined running to the heavy steel door that opened to the playground and slamming my fingers in its hinges. For a minute I thought I might actually do it. But then I saw Clancy’s barrette.

She had two in her hair, pink bows on either side. The one on the left had slipped down. Take it, my thoughts commanded suddenly, and you’ll feel better.

The idea seemed so strange. Clancy was my classmate. I liked her, and I certainly didn’t want to steal from her. But I wanted my brain to stop pulsing, and some part of me knew it would help. So, carefully, I reached forward and unclipped the bow.

The pink clip was hardly attached. Without my help, it probably would have fallen out on its own. Except it didn’t. With it in my hand, I felt better, as if some of the air had been released from an overinflated balloon. The pressure had evaporated. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t care. I’d found a solution. It was a relief.

These early acts of deviance are encoded in my mind like GPS coordinates plotting a course toward awareness. Even now, I can recall where I came across most of the things that didn’t belong to me as a child. But I can’t explain the locket with the L. For the life of me, I don’t remember where I got it. I do recall the day my mother found it in my room and demanded to know why I had it.

Patric, you absolutely must tell me where you got this, she said. We were standing next to my bed. One of the pillow shams was crooked against the headboard, and I was consumed with the urge to straighten it. But Mom was not letting up.

Look at me, she said, grabbing my shoulders. Somewhere out there a person is missing this locket. They are missing it right now and they’re so sad they can’t find it. Think about how sad that person must be.

I shut my eyes and tried to imagine what the missing-locket person was feeling. But I couldn’t. I felt nothing. When I opened my eyes and looked into hers, I knew my mother could tell.

Sweetheart, listen to me, she said, kneeling. Taking something that doesn’t belong to you is stealing. And stealing is very, very bad.

Again, nothing.

Mom paused, not sure what to do next. She took a deep breath and asked, Have you done this before?

I nodded and pointed to the closet, where I showed her my stash of contraband. Together we went through the box. I explained what everything was and where it had come from. Once the box was empty, she stood and said we were going to return every item to its rightful owner, which was fine with me. I didn’t fear consequences, and I didn’t suffer from remorse, two more things I’d already figured out weren’t normal. Returning the stuff actually served my purpose. The box was full, and emptying it would give me a fresh space to store things I had yet to steal.

After we’d gone through everything, Mom asked me, Why did you take these things?

I thought of the pressure in my head and the sense that I needed to do bad things sometimes. I don’t know, I said. It was true. I had no idea what prompted the sensation.

Well… Are you sorry? she asked.

Yes, I said. Also true. I was sorry. But I was sorry I had to steal to stop fantasizing about violence, not because I had hurt anyone.

Mom seemed to want to put the matter behind us. I love you so much, sweetheart, she said. I don’t know why you took all these things, but I want you to promise that if you ever do something like this again, you’ll tell me.

I nodded. My mom was the best. I loved her so much that it was easy to keep that promise. At least, it was at first. We never did find the owner of the locket, but over the years I got better at imagining what it must have felt like once they realized it was gone. It’s probably a lot like how I would feel now if someone took it from me, only I don’t know for sure.

Empathy, like remorse, never came naturally to me. I was raised in the Baptist church. I knew we were supposed to feel bad about committing sins. My teachers talked about honor systems and something called shame, but I didn’t understand why these things mattered. I got the concepts intellectually, but they weren’t things I felt.

As one can imagine, my inability to grasp core emotional skills made the process of making and keeping friends somewhat of a challenge. It wasn’t that I was mean or anything. I was simply different. And others didn’t always appreciate my unique attributes.

It was early autumn and I’d just turned seven. I’d been invited—along with all the girls from class—to a friend’s slumber party. Her name was Collette and she lived a few blocks away from us. I arrived at her house wearing my favorite pink-and-yellow skirt. It was her birthday and I insisted on carrying her present, the convertible Barbie car wrapped in iridescent paper.

Mom gave me a big hug when she dropped me off. She was anxious about our first night apart. Now, don’t you worry, she said, handing me my backpack and Holly Hobbie sleeping bag. If you need to come home, you can.

But I wasn’t worried. In fact, I was excited. A whole night in another place! I couldn’t wait to get started.

The party was fun. We gorged on pizza, cake, and ice cream before changing into our pajamas. We had a dance party in the living room and played games in the yard. But around bedtime, Collette’s mom announced it was quiet time. She started a movie in the living room, and all of us pulled our sleeping bags into a circle. Then, one by one, the girls fell asleep.

When the movie ended, I was the only one awake. There, in the dark, I was again acutely aware of my lack of feeling. I looked at my motionless friends. It was unsettling, seeing them with their eyes closed. I sensed my mounting tension in response to the emptiness and felt the urge to hit the girl next to me as hard as I could.

That’s weird, I thought. I didn’t want to hurt her. At the same time, I knew it would make me relax. Shaking my head against the temptation, I inched out of my sleeping bag to get away from her. Then I got up and began to roam around the house.

Collette had a baby brother named Jacob. His second-floor nursery had a balcony overlooking the street. I quietly climbed the stairs and let myself into the room. He was asleep, and I stared at him. He looked so tiny in his crib, much smaller than my little sister. A blanket was balled up in the corner. I picked it up and adjusted it around his tiny frame. Then I turned my attention to the balcony doors.

The deadbolt made a tiny click as I opened the doors and stepped out into the darkness. From there I could see most of the city. I stood on tiptoes and leaned forward to look up the street, eyeing the intersection at the next block. I recognized the street name and knew it was one over from mine. I bet it would take just a few minutes to walk home.

Suddenly, I knew I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t like being the only one awake, and I really didn’t like being so unrestricted. At home I always had Mom to keep me in line. But here? Who would stop me? And from what? I was uneasy.

It was dark when I walked out the front door, and I loved it. It made me feel invisible, and the pressure I’d been sensing instantly evaporated. I stepped onto the sidewalk and began the trek home, staring at the houses as I strolled. What were the people like who lived inside them? What were they doing? I wished I could find out. I wished I was invisible so I could watch them all day.

The air was crisp, and fog blanketed the streets as I made my way home. Witching weather, my mother liked to call it. At the intersection I pulled my sleeping bag from my backpack and wrapped it around me like a huge scarf. The distance was longer than I’d expected, but I didn’t mind.

I looked across the street and noticed a house with its garage door open. What’s inside? I wondered. Then it occurred to me, I can go find out.

I marveled at the change in atmosphere as I stepped off the curb. The rules, it seemed, had disappeared along with the daylight. In the darkness, with everyone else asleep, there were no restrictions. I could do anything. I could go anywhere. At Collette’s house that idea had made me uncomfortable. But now the same potential had the opposite effect. I felt powerful and in control. I wondered why there was a difference.

Moonlight illuminated my path as I made my way toward the open garage. Stepping inside, I paused to look around. A beige station wagon was parked to one side, leaving room for a vast assortment of toys and knickknacks. Children must live here, I thought. My ankle brushed against the deck of a skateboard. It felt like sandpaper.

Resisting the urge to take it, I crossed instead to the car and opened the rear passenger door. A soft glow from the dome light brightened the garage, so I jumped inside, pulling the door closed behind me. I paused and waited for something to happen.

The silence inside the vehicle was deafening, but I liked it. It reminded me of the movie Superman and Christopher Reeve’s visit to the Fortress of Solitude. It’s like my chamber, I whispered. I imagined myself getting stronger with each passing second.

Outside a flash of movement caught my eye and I saw a car driving by. It was a dark sedan, and my eyes narrowed as I watched it pass. "What are you doing here?" I decided the car was an enemy.

Quickly opening the door, I tiptoed outside just in time to see the sedan round the corner. General Zod, I thought, defiantly. Then I ran back across the street to where I’d left my things. As I bent down to collect them, I caught the familiar scent of laundry detergent and decided it was time to go home. I hugged the side of the walkway closest to the trees. Picking up speed, I found myself happily zigzagging between the safety of shadows. How could anyone be afraid of the night? I wondered happily as I walked. It’s the best part of any day.

By the time I reached the base of the hill to my house, I was exhausted. I trudged up the steep incline, pulling the backpack behind me like a sled. The side door was open, so I was able to enter the house without knocking. I walked quietly up the stairs to my room, trying not to wake my parents. But moments after I crawled into bed, my mother barged through the door.

PATRIC! she yelled, slamming on the light switch. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! Her reaction startled me, and I began to cry. Hoping she’d understand, I explained everything I’d done, but that only seemed to make things worse. She began crying, too, her eyes wide with fear as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Sweetheart, she said finally, pulling me close. "You must never, ever do something like that again. What if something happened? What if you couldn’t get home?" I nodded in agreement, though I wasn’t genuinely troubled by either of those concerns. More than anything, I was confused. Mom had said I could come home anytime I wanted. So why was she so upset?

Because I meant I’d come get you, she explained. Promise me you’ll never do something like that again.

I promised, but I wouldn’t have the opportunity to prove it for several years. Parents, I soon discovered, typically frowned on playmates who came over for slumber parties only to get listless in the middle of the night and decide to walk home on their own. Collette’s mom was not happy when she discovered what I’d done, and made no secret of her disdain. Once she’d told the other parents about my disappearing act, party invitations stopped coming. But it wasn’t just parents who were leery. Other kids also sensed that something about me was off.

You’re weird, said Ava.

It’s one of my few memories of first grade. There was a child-sized dollhouse in the corner of the room, and a bunch of us were playing house. Ava was a classmate of mine. She was friendly and fair, and everyone liked her. It’s one of the many reasons why she naturally assumed the position of mom anytime we played house. I, however, preferred a different role.

I call butler, I said. Ava looked at me, confused.

Butlers, from what I’d gathered watching television, had the best job in the world. They could disappear for extended lengths of time without explanation. They had unrestricted access to everyone’s coats and bags. No one ever questioned their actions. They could walk into a room and not be expected to interact with anyone. They could eavesdrop. It was the ideal profession; at least it was to me. But my explanation didn’t resonate with everyone.

Why are you so weird? Ava asked.

She hadn’t said it to be nasty. It was more a statement of fact, a question I knew I didn’t really need to answer. But when I looked at her, I noticed a most peculiar expression on her face, one I hadn’t seen before. It was a very specific look—equal parts confusion, certainty, and fear. She wasn’t alone. The other kids were staring at me the same way. It made me wary. As if they could see something about me that I couldn’t.

Eager to change the subject, I smiled and bowed. Forgive me, madame, I said in my most butler-like voice. But if I’m acting weird, it’s only because someone has murdered the cook!

It was a distraction I’d already perfected: shock with a hint of humor. Everyone laughed and screamed as the game took on a thrilling—albeit gruesome—tone, and my weirdness faded into the background. But this, I knew, was only a temporary fix.

My penchant for thievery and disappearing aside, something about me made other kids uncomfortable. I knew it. They knew it. And though we could peacefully coexist as classmates, I was rarely included in after-school activities. Not that I minded; I loved being alone. But after a while, my mother grew concerned.

I don’t like that you spend so much time by yourself, she said. It was a Saturday afternoon and she’d come upstairs to check on me after several hours of alone time.

It’s okay, Mommy, I said. I like it.

Mom frowned and sat on my bed, pulling a stuffed raccoon absentmindedly into her lap. I just think it might be good for you to have some friends over. She paused. Do you want to invite anyone from school? What about Ava?

I shrugged and looked out the window. I’d been trying to determine how many bedsheets I needed to knot together to make a rope long enough to reach the ground from my room on the top floor. Earlier in the week I’d seen something called an emergency ladder in a Sears catalogue and had become fixated on the idea of making my own. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it, just that I knew I had to have it. Only now Mom was distracting me.

I don’t know, I said. I mean, Ava’s nice. Maybe we can invite her over next month.

Mom tossed the raccoon aside and stood. Well, we’re having the Goodmans over for dinner, she said brightly. So tonight, I guess you’ll just play with the girls.

The Goodmans lived on our block and were casual friends of my parents. Their two daughters were neighborhood terrors and I hated them. Sydney was a bully and Tina was an idiot. They were constantly in trouble, usually because of something Syd instigated, and I found their behavior infuriating. Granted, I was in no position to judge. But at the time I justified my revulsion. From my perspective, it all came down to intent. Whereas my actions might have sometimes been questionable, I wasn’t breaking rules because I enjoyed it; I acted out because I felt I had no choice. It was a means of self-preservation, of keeping worse things from happening. The Goodmans’ actions, on the other hand, were reckless, attention-seeking, and mean. The bad things they liked to do served no purpose other than cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

My sister, Harlowe, was four years younger than me and still a toddler. We shared the top floor of the house with our nanny, a lovely woman from El Salvador named Lee. Nanny Lee stayed in the room next to ours. When the Goodmans visited, she’d typically be in Harlowe’s room putting her to bed. And rarely did a visit pass without Syd trying to do something heinous to them.

Let’s sneak into Lee’s room and dump water in her bed! Syd hissed later that night while we sat in my room.

I was already annoyed. That’s dumb, I said. She’s going to know it was us and then what? What do you get out of it? She’ll tell our parents, and then you’ll just have to go home.

The barrette I’d stolen from Clancy was attached to one of my braids. I began to tug on the clasp as I realized, Maybe the water dump isn’t the worst idea after all.

Syd had cracked open the door and was peeking outside. Yeah, well, it’s too late anyway because she’s already in her room. She must have gotten Harlowe to sleep. She whirled around. Let’s wake her up! Tina looked up from her magazine and snorted approval. I was perplexed.

Why?

Because then Lee will have to put her back to sleep! And every time she does, we’ll wake her up, over and over! It’ll be so funny!

It didn’t sound funny to me. For starters, no one was messing with my sister. I wasn’t sure how far it was between the fifth and fourth floors, but I was prepared to accidentally shove both Syd and her sister down the stairs, if needed. As for Nanny Lee, I didn’t want her coming out of her room. I knew that the second my sister went to sleep, Lee would call her family and talk for hours. That meant I could listen to my Blondie records undisturbed.

At the time I’d developed something of a fixation with Debbie Harry. I was transfixed by anything and everything Blondie, especially Parallel Lines. On the album cover Debbie Harry stands in a white dress with her hands on her hips and a fierce look on her face. I loved this picture and wanted to look just like her. So much so that if you look in my mother’s photo albums, you will find more than a year’s worth of pictures in which I am clearly attempting to re-create this iconic stance.

Debbie Harry wasn’t smiling on her album cover, so I decided I wouldn’t, either—for anything. Unfortunately, following a spectacularly disastrous episode with the school photographer that resulted in me kicking over a tripod, Mom decided that Debbie Harry was a bad influence and threw away all of my Blondie albums. That I’d fished them out of the dumpster and listened to them at night hadn’t yet registered with Nanny Lee.

I decided to switch tactics. How about this, I offered. Let’s sneak into the backyard and spy on our parents through the windows.

I could tell Syd was irritated. My plan didn’t involve torturing anyone and was therefore comparatively lackluster. All the same, the thought of eavesdropping on our parents was more exciting than even she could resist. Tina, too, seemed thrilled.

After some negotiations, Syd agreed. We snuck out of my bedroom and crept single-file past Nanny Lee’s room. Eventually we made it all the way downstairs to the laundry room. I unlocked the door that opened to the side of the house. The California air was both chilly and sweet.

Okay, I said. You two go this way, and I’ll meet you on the back deck. They looked nervous. The yard was not only pitch-black but also essentially nonexistent, as most of the house was supported by wooden stilts that plunged a hundred feet down a hill. One ill-placed step and they’d tumble to the bottom. You’re not scared, right? I put on my most concerned face.

Tina responded first. Get me a Coke, she said, and then disappeared along the side of the house with Syd reluctantly following.

As soon as they were out of sight, I stepped back into the house and locked the door. Then I crept upstairs to my room, turned off the lights, got into bed, and turned on my record player. I was calm and quite satisfied with myself. I knew I should have felt bad about what I’d done, except I didn’t. I got to listen to Blondie uninterrupted.

It was nearly an hour before I saw my mother’s shadow on the walls of the stairwell. I threw my headphones to the floor and managed to kill the volume just before she walked through the door. Patric, she asked, "did you lock Syd