My Two Year Old Is Driving Me Further Insane

My two year old is probably like most two year olds, but I am not like most fathers and it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to tolerate her. The screaming causes me to scream. The mimicry causes me to smile, but get aggravated when she repeats it over and over again which leads to more screaming.

The thing that gets me fired up the most is when she openly defies her mother or me. That gets her a whipping and/or time out. Sometimes I send her to bed over it. I cannot tolerate it. It makes my blood boil. I hate to be disrespected and that is what she is doing. I have tried explaining it to her, but even though she seems to get it she does exactly what she just got in trouble for ten seconds later.

I know she is testing her boundaries, but she reached the end of them a long time ago. She does not respect us and she does not fear us (which is good), but I need something to change and quick because my hair is falling out AND turning grey and I am having to double up on my Klonopin (at the suggestion of my doctor).

My therapist thinks I need a break and I have taken them and they help, but it is back to the same when I return. I can’t take a permanent break as I can’t stand being away from her for more than a night or three (six has been the max and it sucked). So I miss her, but I want to get away from her. I love her, but I hate what she is doing. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Help me, please.

First Chapter of Fiction Memoir Based on My Life

Below is the first chapter of the book I am working on. I am almost finished with the first draft and will begin editing soon. It is supposed to be difficult to read: halting, uncomfortable in places. If you find yourself being able to flow through it with ease then I have not done my job.

The Madness That Lies Within

Metal folding chair kicked back on the back two legs, my legs propped up against the wooden railing of my current place of residence, my apartment that I shared with my wife and soon to be mother of my child. I was out there to smoke. I was out there to let the tendrils of carcinogenic pulls of nicotine laced smoke into my lungs, let it process – slowly crystalizing my bronchial tubes – and then exhaling, that part being one of the parts that I enjoyed the most. Sometimes I French inhaled, allowed the smoke to creep out of my mouth and inhale it into my open nostrils, letting it snake its way down my sinus cavities and into my trachea, making its way into my windpipe and back down into my thorax. I was smoking clove cigarettes before they stopped making my brand and then before they made them illegal because the government released propaganda stating that flavored cigarettes, including cloves, were targeting children. Fuck that. Children should be governed by their parents, not the government who can’t run an insurance program that nearly ran itself for years that assisted those who could not assist themselves, like those who had terminal illnesses, including cancer and AIDs, and other diseases that are well known but I can’t think of right now.

My significant other, my wife, the future mother of my daughter, was asleep so I was not out there to get away from her as I could’ve just as easily have done that on the couch in our crowded living room where my desk also found its home. My desk, that I spent more than seventy percent of my life at, not just my waking moments, but all of my moments, was like a well-loved pet, I took care of it, gave it a bath when it needed, relied on it for companionship, and was more comfortable when it was around. Most of my friends were on there and I created my own little niche on there that needed me, I made sure of that. I had spent so much time on my computer, and would continue to spend just as much, if not more, in the coming years, that my best friend (other than my wife, the future mother of my daughter), was on there because I had just been approved for a disability that was the reason I spent as much time as I did in front of the computer. My disability was not because I was blind or because I was missing an appendage. My disability was not because I got injured at work and I had most of my body crushed, as a matter of fact my body was in pretty good shape, or it would be if I took care of it, which I didn’t and did less and less as the years went, but I will get to that … eventually. No, my disability was because I was fucking crazy, certifiable, insane, and just not legally declared so.

I saw things that weren’t there; people, alive and dead, those I knew and those I didn’t, people who existed and some that my mind made up, just for me (wasn’t I a lucky fuck). I saw things move where nothing should move, I saw the walls breathe, I saw the ceiling bleed once or thrice. The floor opened up and tried to eat me, but I jumped to my couch, which became a rickety old life boat, to save myself. I saw my wife, the future mother of my child, when she wasn’t there, when she was at work, when she swore that she was no one near our dirty little apartment that we called home. I made phone calls, crying into the phone to people who had no idea who I was because I couldn’t figure out the right buttons and, because of my severe anxiety (which I will get into in a bit) I couldn’t tell them anything like, most important, who I was and where I was. I saw birds flying at my head when there were no birds, or were there (you knew I was going to say that, didn’t you). I saw animals in the grass, but the grass was left undisturbed. I saw my neighbors covered in blood, running around, but I had no neighbors in that unit. And worst of all, yet one of the smallest things, was that damn black cat that always showed up. It showed up so much that I asked my wife, the mother of my unborn child, if it was real and she confirmed that I was, again, seeing things. I even tried to take a picture of it which resulted in odd things, from flares to darkness to a regular shot with no cat in it. I hated that fucking cat.

I heard things as well, auditory hallucinations they called it. It was not as bad as the visual ones, but the disembodied voices were freaky and the people that I talked about earlier, they talked too, a lot. Sometimes these people, bodiless or not, were so loud that I couldn’t hear anything else. I even bought a pair of headphones, well I had my Rachael, my wife, the mother of my unbo – you get the idea, buy them for me. They did nothing to block out the voices. A lot of people, including the mental medical professions, psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, and others, would ask me what the voices would say. Sometimes they were just a running commentary of my life. Sometimes they tried to convince me to do things, good things, bad things, indifferent things, just things. Sometimes they sang, loudly. Sometimes they tried to have conversations with me and if I wasn’t paying attention or the voice had a body, I would talk back, these hallucinations becoming good friends of mine.

But they weren’t always voices that I heard. I heard cars starting when they weren’t (I looked). I heard car horns and people knocking on my door. I even called the cops on a neighbor because I thought I heard a party going on but when the cops got there, I watched out of my window, they were just talking to the young couple for a bit, I watched the whole time expecting a gaggle of people to pour out of the unit. When the police were through with my neighbors they came and talked to me, my wife wasn’t home, and said that there was no excessive noise, no noise at all as a matter of fact. I apologized and they went on their merry way. I would hear people pounding on the walls and, unless Rachael was home, I never knew what was real and what wasn’t. Some days I would find myself, because I wouldn’t realize what I was doing, which was not uncommon, lying on the couch, you guessed it – in the fetal position, fully dressed, silently crying until my face was soaked and my shirt was marked, leaving a tell-tale sign for my wife when she got home so I took to changing my shirt often and burying clothes in the dirty clothes pile. I would’ve done the laundry, but we had coin operated machines and a specific day for laundry where Rachael would stop and get quarters just for the event.

I mentioned finding myself on the couch. I frequently found myself in places that I didn’t remember going. Nowhere too far from our apartment and, actually, usually not out of our apartment expect out on the balcony where I usually had a cigarette in my hand which was occasionally burning my fingers because it had burned down so far. I was not the crazy guy walking down the street, twitching, talking to himself. I was the crazy guy sitting in his apartment, twitching (because of the anxiety issue) and talking to myself, of course I didn’t know I was talking to myself, I thought there were people there.

The severe anxiety was really tied in with a bit, and sometimes more than a bit, of paranoia. I didn’t like crowds, so I didn’t want to go anywhere, but I hated being alone so I constantly shook when I was at home. When I did go out, I thought people were not only following me, but listening to my conversations, and I don’t mean on my cellphone, which was there as well, I thought people were literally getting close enough to me to listen to what I was saying. Because of that, I spoke really low and annoyed the piss out of my wife. It was hard to go out to dinner somewhere because I had to have my back to a wall or I freaked out the whole meal and couldn’t eat. I was constantly afraid that Rachael was going to leave me for any number of reasons. How long could one person put up with all that I was dishing out. I had more issues than all the versions of Superman put together.

And the crazy part (weren’t all the parts crazy with differing levels and variations of the crazy) was that the psychiatrist I was seeing considered me ‘high-functioning’ because I could take care of myself, drive (even though I shouldn’t have), and had someone who loved me and stayed with me even though I had so much going on. Yes, that was a part of the diagnosis. Because of Rachael, I was high-functioning.

I didn’t just start off like this randomly. I had been going to see a therapist or some other level of mental health professional, most of the time was seeing more than one at a time, almost my entire life. I had used and abused drugs as a teen and much younger (which I will expand on later), and had many traumatic events happen in my life. Oh, and I had a childhood that was less than favorable. I wasn’t physically abused that much, I was extremely emotionally abused and ignored which is a form of abuse, and I wasn’t sexually abused by a relative, but some therapists and psychologists say I could’ve repressed those memories. Since the rest of my childhood fit it, they said that it was a good possibility that it happened and I just don’t remember it, of course there was one significant incident that could account for that, but I just never thought of it like that until very recently.

I quit using drugs when I was twenty-three and not much later I met my first wife (yes I have been married more than once). She was married at the time and I helped her get away from a relationship where her husband wore more make-up than she did, yes he was a ‘goth’, but he was stealing the make-up from her, trying to sneak around with it and not being honest to her about it or anything else, and she was beginning to be, not exactly creeped out by the make-up wearing issue, but uncomfortable with it and the dishonesty thing was wearing her down. We were together for a short period of time before we decided to get married. Bad idea.

It is now my opinion, from experience (bad or good), that a person should spend time with their perspective spouse for at least a year, more than three is better, and live together first, for a while preferably. Now if it is a same-sex relationship than I would imagine that less time would be required because while they would still need to get to know one another and understand how to co-exist, while their bodies aren’t identical, they are more alike than an opposite-sex relationship partners’ would be, there would be a little time cut off for that, at the very least, of course I could be completely wrong as I am only trysexual – as in I will try it once, maybe twice to see how I feel about it and then maybe continue with it, if I like it, and I don’t know everything about relationships that I have been in (both same and opposite sex) so how much do I really know about any relationship and, besides, I am not the one to be handing out information or advice on relationships at all since I have had so many failed ones.

But, my first wife and I had very little in common and I rushed my feelings for her since I had so little love in my life and after a series of one night stands and meaningless sex that my life consisted of, this relationship that lasted longer than a few weeks immediately seemed like it was the one that was going to go the distance and I also thought that the metal clips that were popular in the seventies that were most often attached to feathers were all used as roach clips and if someone had one then they obviously smoked weed religiously.

I found out that I didn’t love her shortly after we married. I tried, I mean I liked her a lot, she just wasn’t my world and that seemed wrong to me. We decided that it might be a good idea to add some spice to the relationship since it wasn’t ‘perfect’ (this was mainly my idea and she went along with it to make me happy) by including other people for sexual variety, but there wasn’t supposed to be any emotional attachment to the other people. Problem was that the first girl I decided to add to my life for ‘sexual variety’ I became extremely emotionally attached to, so much that she became my world, which was exactly what I was looking for and expected in a long term relationship, especially a marriage, if I wanted it to last anyway.

I tried to work it out by having two women in my life but after several months I realized I was not being fair to any of us and it was extremely taxing on me emotionally, mentally, physically, and especially sexually. I had to drop one of them and I loved the wife less, so much less that I am sure that I didn’t love her at all. A divorce was the only logical option, to me. The first wife was devastated. We also found out she was pregnant during the whole process. What could’ve been a clean break and the continuation of a wonderful relationship between Rachael and me as well as the start our time together starting the rest of our lives became scarred by the fact that the divorce could not be finalized until the baby was born.

Rachael and I waited the nine months, lived together, and then waited another year and then some before we decided to get married. It was the best choice I have ever made. I hope to be with her forever. She is my world.

So after my happiness, Rachael and I ran into some financial troubles because I couldn’t hold a job because of anxiety issues that we didn’t really know were issues at that point. We moved in with her parents and they were wonderful to us. Two kinder people I will never meet. They love their children with an unyielding strength that they show it at every chance they can. They would literally not only give an arm for them but all of their appendages, their organs and anything else they could.

I got comfortable. I believed and so did mental medical professionals that I was Bi-Polar. I had depressive states where I wallowed in my own self-pity and I had manic phases where I had no sense of right and wrong, doing some really stupid fucking stuff as well as was violent at times, but not often enough that it was an issue at all.

During a severe depressive state, I was on Percocet and Oxycontin for a Discectomy that was performed. I was laid up in bed and didn’t move for nearly anything. If I could’ve had a bag to piss and shit in, I wouldn’t have gotten up at all. The drugs were a great mask for the mental state I was in, I convinced Rachael that I was just ‘out of it’ because of them. Part of that was true, but part of it was because I hated my life and wished nothing more than to lie there and die. Several times a day I thought about taking a few too many pills and ending it, but I thought I could not leave a body, which had evacuated its bowels, for my in-laws to clean up. At that point in my life suicide was not really an issue as I had more respect for myself and those around me than ever before, even at my lowest. In the past and the future suicide had and has been an issue as my sense of self-worth fluctuates more than a barometer.

After I pulled myself out of that depressive state that was aided by pharmaceuticals, which caused me to soil my sheets several times, thank you (again) to Rachael for cleaning up after me time and time again, I quickly entered a manic phase and a fucking righteous one at that. No violence, but the ability to care what was right or wrong was gone. I still knew, I just didn’t give a shit (okay, maybe I didn’t know most of the time, but I liked to think I did – it gave me a sense of rebellion).

So I ran a credit card scam on my wife’s sister’s husband. Not that it matters, but I just want to talk about something and this is my story so I will.

Heather, Rachael’s sister, is three years younger than she is. Rachael got married to me when she was almost twenty-two and she became a part of my life when she was nineteen. Heather’s boyfriend, who was her high school sweetheart, proposed to her and signed up to join the Marines while they were in high school. They were going to wait until he got back from all of his training to even start planning a wedding. It was still a bit young, but not horrible and not too far off from when her sister would get married, of course the fact that her sister and I were getting married, let alone when, had not even entered the picture yet. Instead they decided they couldn’t wait and that he would get more money from the military if they were married. So just after she turned eighteen, before she graduated high school, they got married.

She was divorced not long after. She decided she couldn’t wait on her husband to get back from Iraq, so she decided to fool around with a Navy boy while Michael, her husband, was on active duty. This has nothing to do with my story and her story is extensive, but it’s not mine to tell, even though I really want to. I mainly won’t tell it because her parents will probably read this and, not knowing what is fact or fiction, would have a doubt in their heads about the integrity of their daughter and I really don’t want that.

So the credit card scam on Michael while he was in Iraq was shitty of me, I know, but, as I told you, I was in a really bad manic state and I didn’t care what was wrong or who it would hurt (not an excuse, just the fact of the matter). So I didn’t even do anything special with it. I got a Sears card and bought a DSLR camera and some gear for it. I picked it up at their automated pickup center (what a good idea that is) and no one knew any difference.

I hid the evidence, not the camera itself as I told them that a friend had sold it to me really cheap, for a few months until Martin, my father-in-law, got the bill in the mail as I did not get to it first. It apparently wasn’t the first one he had gotten either.  He and his wife confronted me about it and eventually I broke down with lots of shameful crying. My manic state came crashing down around me. I nearly went into a rock bottom depressive state when they kicked us out. I didn’t care about me, but I cared about the relationship between Rachael and her parents. Michael, being such a wonderful kid, didn’t press charges and convinced the credit card company that it was a misunderstanding with a relative and all was not forgiven, but I was not sent to jail or charged at all. Thank you, Michael and thank you Michael’s family.

Rachael and I moved in with my parents. It was a mess. We moved into the unfinished basement that we were not allowed to do anything with for fear that we would get comfortable and think we could stay longer than they wanted us to. My sister lives there now with her husband and two kids. It kind of felt like a kick in the balls when they partially finished the area for her, including putting in a bathroom. They are good people and I love them, but I doubt they are ever leaving. I can’t fathom why my parent’s thought it was a better situation for my sister and her husband and kids to live there than us who were much more productive, but perhaps they just wanted more for me, I have to tell myself that so I don’t get pissed about it from time to time even though I still do. We were not there long, a few months tops, before we found our first apartment together. It was not our first apartment together, truly, but it was since we were married.

Sometime between Martin kicking us out and the mess at my mother’s house was when I had my breakdown. It progressively got worse. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia and will spend my life jumping from drug to drug attempting to find the right combination that makes me “normal”.

Hard At Work

I started working on my almost fictional memoir/biography quite some time ago. It has gone through many titles and I recently gave it a new one: Ramblings of an Uncut Mind. I chose it because my poetry collection is titled Poetic Visions of an Uncut Mind and when doing nonfiction (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) I am trying for stability that way if the book gets picked up then perhaps they will pick up the collection for republication. I have big hopes and dreams, but if you can’t dream big then why hope to dream at all?

I say the piece is “almost fictional” because I am not sure what is real and what is not. What is fact to me, may be a lie to someone else. My therapist told me I should leave it alone (trying to figure out what is real or imagined) and just live my life, but that is hard when you are a writer, especially if you are writing a memoir. So I have taken what I think I know and written it down and if something contradicts that in my mind then I write that as well, explaining that I have two or more memories of the same event or time period.

So most of my time has been spent working on that. The rest is spent writing poetry, cleaning the apartment, trying to buy a house, taking care of my daughter and finding time to show my wife some love. As I write this I have to say I feel sorry for her because as much of a bitch that she can be, she still has to deal with a (medicated)schizophrenic, former drug addict, smoker, pathological liar who happens to be an aspiring author. That is not to say that I don’t feel that she still treats me unfair at times, it is just to say that she has it just as rough, if not more, as I do dealing with her unmedicated ass who is sick constantly and whines when she is not bitching, screaming, or not listening to a word I say, not to mention never taking my feelings, thoughts, or sicknesses in mind.

So if you are wondering why I haven’t been posting so much, now you know.

A quick update:

  • The 2 year old is sleeping through the night in her own bed, but never past 6:30 am.
  • The wife is looking for a better job that won’t treat her like a door mat.
  • We have found a house, pending inspection (Monday), that we should be in by mid-August.
  • I think my best friend is trying to get in my wife’s pants as his wife’s pants are currently in the possession of another of our friends (complicated). I may write about this when I have time.
  • My medication is working splendidly. Anxiety is at a 25% level and paranoia is at a 35% level, but the hallucinations are at a 5% level and the emotional response is up 300%. Moods are stable for the most part and I am seeing signs of real happiness.

Would love to hear from any of you readers that would like to say something.

Mood Swings, Drugs, Medications, Houses and Toddler Beds

I feel like I have never felt before. Before the drugs (the majority of them) and before the medications I kind of remember being a angsty preteen pain in my absentee parent’s rear. During that time moods were being thrown all over the place, but the only control that was to be had was whatever environmental factors that I could avoid or get in to.

When I increased the usage of illicit drugs I still had little to no control over my emotions, but then there were very little emotions to be had. The psychotic episodes began and my conscience went on vacation.

I then got on medications and everything went blank. I was forcing any emotion that would almost come and I didn’t think I would ever be anything but what I was right then.

Now things are different again. I have come to realize that emotions are hard, if not impossible, to control and I do have them – they were just being smothered by the drugs (legal and not).

Off the pain medication and on the right meds I have emotions, real ones. Depression is a passing thing not a state of being. I know what love, not obsession, is. I know what it means to be, or want to be, co-dependent as opposed to independent and dependent.

My words are being saved for something else right now, but I can say I feel like the bright summer sun that just found the break in the clouds from a deluge that had lasted for days, weeks, months, or even years.

We are house hunting right now and the clouds streak in front of me occasionally because I know, due to my past, that I am only an assistant in the process. I mean it will be mine and the decision is half mine, but everything will be and is in my wife’s name. A sense of ownership is hard to find and therefore pride is difficult to inflate, which may be a good thing, but my pride has not existed for a while now – a little would be nice.

When I started this blog we were having sleep issues with my two year old. If she wouldn’t sleep it would nearly kill me to stay up. I would breakdown and not recover for days. Now she is in a toddler bed, sleeping through the night, except the time I am going to talk about, and is a good sleeper – for the most part.

We put her to bed every night using the same routine and she still listens to a CD of me singing to her, but she goes down without much of a fuss, doesn’t get out of bed and sleeps through the night, except the other night.

I left my office at 10:45 pm and as I hit the hallway she started crying. I waited, but it only got worse. I went in to talk to her, but she wanted nothing to do with it. Finally she agreed to sleep on the couch. I should have never agreed to that.

Long story short, I was up all night watching movies and reading books to her (she has a back molar coming in we found out). The point is I was tired, but fine. No breakdown and no days to recover.

Things are looking up.

I will keep you abreast of the house situation and the new baby try (surprise).

What else would you like to know about me or my life?

Not In A Good Place

Since medications were stolen, I am not only going through withdraw, but having major anxiety attacks. I am not sleeping and I can’t shake the feeling of large bugs crawling under my skin, just pushing and pushing their way out. My moods are all over the place and the paranoia is so bad that I am barricading the doors and widows and refusing to leave the house. I even tore the house apart today looking for audio or visual devices (I found none).

I didn’t react this bad when I came off of heroin 10 years ago. Suicide is not an option, well its an option just not a valid one – I wish it was at times.

My wife and I are also not seeing eye to eye. She can’t handle my issues right now and I don’t know what to do.

I need help and my psych and therapist just aren’t doing the job. My dog is helping, but only a bit. I did think about throwing her out the widow when she went and did her business on the floor but I stormed off, yelled, put a hole in the wall and cleaned it up.

Then I patched the hole. Then the guy I may or may not have killed came to talk to me about God.

Anger is not my forte. I don’t know what to do with it, how to handle it, or how to vent it so I don’t hurt anyone.

Do I need to check myself in?

Do I need that much help or will it go away in time?

My Day With My Daughter

I almost never have more than a couple of hours alone with my daughter as my anxiety does not allow it – it barely allows an hour or two. Last Saturday I had nearly all day with her.

My wife went shopping for several hours in the morning, slept when she got home and then went for a two hour pedicure afterwards. When she got home from that she sat on the couch and lost herself in her computer leaving me alone with my daughter for five or six hours and then virtually alone for another four or five hours. This left me with the task of finding something for us to do and curbing my anxiety and lack of confidence in myself.

I cannot force myself to go outside as I live in an apartment, next to a road, across from a community center – there are people all over the place, all the time. The anxiety would be fueled by the agoraphobia and the paranoia and there would be no way I could focus enough on my daughter. I considered the zoo, but without my wife I would have no one to lean on and the same thing would happen. So we were stuck inside as I had no interest in sharing my day with relatives. I was determined to handle this task on my own and enjoy the time as much as I possibly could.

So I broke out the new art activities I had recently bought for my two year old and we colored while my wife was shopping. She drew a beautiful picture on the window and then several on construction paper and custom coloring sheets I designed.

When the wifey got home my daughter and I watched a movie (six movies would play that day, but some of them were just on in the background).

While the movie was playing, we (pretend) ate in her kitchen, played house with the cardboard box I turned into a house and I brushed her hair while she told me about her soccer lesson and her week with her aunt who watches her.

When mommy left for her pedicure we brought out the finger paints. What was supposed to last for an hour or more only lasted twenty to thirty minutes. I showed my daughter my attempt at scrapbooking and we looked at pictures.

More movie watching and some cuddling. Reading and more (pretend) eating filled the time until dinner.

All in all in was a relaxing day where my anxiety and control issues only reared hard a few times (mostly while coloring and painting). I know that there is no way I could do that everyday and I found a new respect for those that do watch children all day lay. Multiple ones would drive me to swallow a bottle of pills and lock them in their bedrooms(s).

I am curious to know what issues arise in other people where children are concerned.

The Confessions And Concerns Of A Liar

Disclaimer: I may lie about some of this, but I will make every effort not to.

I have lied about everything from stealing from my parents as a youth to how many times I have been camping. From the meaningful to the mundane and everything between and on either side; if you can think about it then I have lied about it.

I am not sure when it started or why, but I have been lying for as long as I can remember about one thing or another. When it began it may have been by choice or for personal gain, but now it is difficult not to lie and most of the time, as far as I can tell, it does not benefit me in anyway. When writing this blog it started off difficult because I was determined not to lie about anything, it just seems to get harder over time. In my daily life I have been working hard to not lie or correct myself when I do because the lie just spouts forth from my mouth without me realizing what I am saying until I actually say it. Then is when I realize I have lied and I try to correct myself; in the past I may not have realized I lied until minutes, hours, days later – if ever. I also believe that if I did realize it I didn’t care enough about the other people because of my lack of emotional responses and lock of respect for others and myself.

When emotions came flooding back in I started to feel regret and shame for all the lies I have told. I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to make amends. Something. But my life was built on lies. I couldn’t even tell what was true and what was a lie, I still can’t. I thought about it hard. I wrote down everything I could. I never talked to anyone about it and I still haven’t – not sure I ever will. What I realized is that over 70% of my life is a lie. If I come out with the truth I am not sure I would have anyone, including my wife, in my life anymore – who she knows doesn’t really exist, who everyone knows (except those who read this) doesn’t exist. I will never publicly list the lies that I know I have told, but I have thought of sealing them somewhere (in a safe deposit box or something) and having it released upon my death, but I believe that would hurt too many people and I have no interest in doing that anymore.

I do not believe in heaven or hell so I do not believe that if I don’t “repent” I will burn forever, but it does weigh heavy on me.

So I was curious about whether or not lying was considered a illness in and of itself or if it was just another symptom of the lovely illness I have. I do personally know of cases where the lying is there but little to no other symptoms. I know of three. One is a little bereft of emotion, but the other two are well adjusted. I think one does it to benefit herself and does it by choice but gets an almost high with it. The other is also a female (not sure if that matters) and, I believe, she doesn’t even realize she is lying. At first I thought it was a poor memory, but she would tell several different version of the same situations and even the real situation; that’s when I knew it was a lying situation.

Lying has typically been categorized into Compulsive and Pathological.

  • Compulsive is considered to be a habitual and automatic response. Something that is unplanned, impulsive, has no purpose, and it is thought that the individual has no control over the lies that are told.
  • Pathological is thought to be associated with little to no empathy and the lies are often used to manipulate a situation and others. The individual is often very self-involved.

Neither Compulsive nor Pathological Lying is considered a disease in the DSM (Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). A disease is widely thought to be something that is uncontrolled by natural means. Pathological Lying seems to be something that could be controlled, but Compulsive Lying is involuntary, habitual and the individual has no control of the lies that spew forth from them.

This is a concern of mine as nothing is being done to curb the uncontrolled lying in so many individuals. Until is is declared a disease or illness little to no research will be done to correct it. No drugs will be invented to assist the individuals and mental heath professions will have no standard on how to respond to the situation.

Dr. Charles Dike is a forensic psychiatrist and a professor at Yale who is working to have compulsive lying (which he renames Pathological Lying because it sounds more clinical) included in the next edition of the DSM. He has plenty of opposition and it is unlikely that it will be included, but at least someone is shining a light on something that has been ignored for too long.