This short fictobiography (my new term for a biography or autobiography about a fictional character) demonstrates many of the thoughts I've and conclusions I've drawn in the area of people with malfunctioning amygdalas, aka psychopaths. It's been a complicated logical road, but this is what I've come up with:
Hello. My name is Mason Thomas, and I am a psychopath. This is the story of how I came to know Jesus Christ.
I first began learning about what I was before I was even three years old. My mom often told me she loved me, but I had no clue what she meant. I didn't return the affection, though I still said the words. Later, I hit my brother and he fell and scraped his knee. My mom told to me say that I'm sorry, but I didn't. Instead, I told her,
"But I'm not, Mommy. I'm never sorry." She spanked me for that, even though I didn't understand why. I never felt affection, guilt, sorrow, joy, or any of the other emotions that come so naturally to most people. I did sometimes feel anger, frustration, and (very rarely) fear; and ever so often I would experience a type of sick pleasure at watching the pain of others.
When I was in kindergarten, none of the other kids understood, so they made fun of me. One day I just got tired of it (their laughs were so obnoxious) and threw a block at one of them. He cried and ran to the teacher. She put me in time out. I didn't care.
It wasn't until I was ten that I actually began to understand what I am. I watched a movie about a psychopathic serial killer and was intrigued. I found myself imagining the brutal deaths of people around me whenever I was at all displeased. I hid much of it, but enough was apparent that my mom took me to a psychologist, who diagnosed me as a psychopath. I thought it was cool at the time. My mom cried a lot for the next couple days; I just watched and even once laughed.
I finally hit rock bottom at fifteen. I'd been bullied a lot at school; people took advantage of my inability to be embarrassed. I was in a grouchy mood, though, because my supposed friends had really annoying laughs. When I got home one day, my brother was bugging me. I put up with it for a while, but eventually he touched me. At that, I felt one of my occasional flares of rage. We were standing in the kitchen, so I pulled out a butcher knife and shoved it through his chest. His body collapsed onto the ground and I laughed. I proceeded to wash my hands and watched TV until my parents got home.
Expectedly, I was arrested for murder. When my trial came, my lawyer helped me work out a good case for pleading not guilty by reason of insanity. The judge decided to have me institutionalized until I seemed to be in normal mental condition.
The institution was an incredibly stupid place. The people were obnoxious and condescending, the food was disgusting, and I wasn't allowed to read violent novels or watch violent movies. Wanting to get out as soon as possible, I put on the best charade I could. I was released at nineteen.
Upon my release, something occurred to me. This was not a good life. I was living like some kind of zombie, wasting away until I went violent. I realized I might not be so lucky as to stay out of jail next time. Jail was not an option (too many idiots in unsanitary conditions), so I began doing research about how to cure my psychopathy. There was nothing. The scientific world had no answers. I abhorred the idea of turning to religion, but then I saw a series of articles on Christian apologetics. They were brilliant and convincing. Since I incapable of being emotionally invested in my atheism, I quickly concluded that Christianity had to be true.
Thinking there might be an answer for me in Jesus Christ, who healed far worse than a mental disorder, I began going to church. Initially, I was shunned. Everyone seemed to agree that a psychopath couldn't be saved. They said that I had to love God, and psychopaths can't love. I was angry, and decided to try a different church.
The first sermon I heard at my new church was about emotion's proper place in the Christian life. The pastor spoke of how love is a decision and commitment of actions, not an emotion. He also told how repentance was a turning away from a sinful lifestyle, not simple sorrow or guilt. Then I felt something. Not anger or frustration, but something good. I had no experience at the time, but I thought it was hope. As the pastor continued preaching, that hope welled up in me, and I realized that, for the hope to be true, I had to repent. My emotions continued, and I gladly repented of my sins and accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior. I committed to live my life in the love of Christ, not matter what. Then, as ecstasy and gratitude filled my heart, it all stopped. My feelings went blank, and I was no different than I was before. Except I was. I may not have been able to feel, but I knew I had changed. I was Jesus Christ's, and even if I couldn't feel my love for Him, I could live it.
From that point on, I lived my life as a Christian should. Many of the people I met never could guess I was a psychopath. I very rarely felt anything, though I did more than I had before, but I still lived the Christian walk. When I couldn't feel compassion, I lived compassion. When I couldn't feel love, I gave love. Jesus filled my what would have been a heart for feeling with an intellectual determination to live for Him.
The years went by, and I eventually went on a mission trip to China. I was thirty-six at the time, and I was determined to share the Gospel to my full potential. I did well, bringing many to Christ, but eventually I was discovered by a radical atheist group. They had me executed. I stood there before a firing squad and prayed like Jesus and Stephen, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." The command was giving, and they fired. And then I felt it all. Love, joy, ecstasy, longing. I met my Savior and my mind was whole.