When Someone Tells You They’re a Sociopath, Believe Them. Don’t Help Them Cross the Border
Part 1
Last year I fell in love with Taos - a small mountain town in northern New Mexico.
The hippies, magic, and nature had me driving back more often than I’d expected.
The first time I was there I went to a silent disco with an old man I met on the street. The second time I met a (possible) mystic on the side of the road and a sociopath.
I didn’t know he was a sociopath when we met.
I thought he was a handsome entrepreneur selling shoes and handbags. He was tan with long dark hair to his butt, and he mildly resembled my childhood crush Johnny Depp. We’ll call him JD for short.
I was high and strolling through artisan booths at a Saturday market when I came across JD’s booth. I had already spent more money than I’d planned and wasn’t keen on spending anymore, but he gave me a deal on a repurposed horse saddle bag that I couldn’t refuse.
It led to us chatting between his salesman conversations with customers, and I found out he’d recently bought a house in the area. How convenient.
I soon got tired of his work interruptions and after awkwardly waiting for the next lull in customers, I decided to keep it pushin. I said my good-bye, and he gave me his Instagram and mentioned something about hanging out soon.
Flash forward three weeks later…
And we’re at a hot spring during the first snowfall of the season. By pure luck I messaged him the day he’d gotten back to town from a trip.
The hot spring turned into a dinner which turned into tea at his rented place in town followed by me spending the night.
The entire 16-hour date gave me hope for dating again.
I actually wanted to ask him questions about himself and listen to his responses. We had so much in common while living different lives.
Who knew the struggles of a Native American man and a black woman growing up in America could have so many similarities?
It was like his life’s hardships were pulling at my empathic heart strings. Or trauma bonding. It was probably trauma bonding.
Plus, he was funny and smart and older (almost 40) so he felt more “mature”.
I still remember his unamused reaction when I asked about his struggles living with butt length hair…
‘Do you sit on it? Is it a pain to wash? How often does it get stuck in the car door? That’s gotta happen right?’
Genuine questions I think of every time I see someone with long hair.
That’s when I learned his ethnicity treats his hair as sacred and is only cut when someone close passes away. Oops. But also, why did he avoid the car door question?
As the day went on, I kept waiting for this man to kiss me. Touch me. Any kind of physical gesture to match what his eyes were saying. But nothing happened.
I figured, well, maybe it’s because he’s older so he’s more “respectful” or something.
Or he’s shy. Fine. I can be patient.
We kept talking until I was too tired to drive back to where I was staying 30 minutes away. He offered me a change of clothes and three sleep options: the couch, spare bed, or his bed.
I asked him where he wanted me, but he was caught off guard and avoided answering.
I chose the third option (partially for body warmth but also because I had a feeling it was the option he wanted but was too nervous to say).
We got into bed, and I started thinking, surely in the bed with the lights out this man will finally have the courage to make a move.
Nope. Wrong.
We kept talking. Which was fine because he was interesting but annoying because I was horny.
One of our conversations sprouted from me saying something like,
‘I don’t think there is anything you could tell me about yourself that could scare me.’
A bold statement considering I’d spent the day getting to know someone raised in an abusive home, boxed people for fun as a kid, and spent time in jail. He said he was wrongfully accused, but still.
That’s when he tested my limits and told me he had a second personality.
A personality he has to suppress because of the trouble and pain he causes other people.
I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that one. But I’ll also admit I wasn’t as alarmed as I should’ve been. When I’m horny, I think less clearly.
In my mind I’m thinking,
Ok you sound crazy, but it sounds like you’ve got a handle on it. More importantly, are you asexual?
But out loud I decided to go with a “hmm interesting” instead.
We kept talking so long that I started to get offended. So offended I was considering
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