My Obsession with Psychos (how your activities might make you one but you don't know)
The rain lashed against your window, mimicking the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. You weren't looking at the storm, though. You were re-watching a documentary, the hundredth time this month, for the hundredth chilling detail. This one explored the mind of a serial killer, a man who meticulously planned his crimes, leaving no trace of remorse.
Your fascination with the psyche of psychos began innocently enough. A crime podcast here, a psychological thriller there. But it morphed into an obsession. You devoured books on criminal profiling, spent nights lost in online forums dissecting infamous cases. You craved understanding the darkness, the chilling logic that twisted a mind.
Your friends found it unsettling. Movie nights turned into lectures on manipulation tactics, casual outings became dissertations on the Macdonald triad. They'd excuse themselves, whispers of "a bit much" following you like a phantom limb.
The isolation fueled the obsession. You started noticing "tells" everywhere. The cashier with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, the neighbor with an unnervingly calm demeanor. You'd spend hours constructing elaborate narratives in your head, each stranger a potential case study.
One evening, while poring over a psychological evaluation, a horrifying realization struck you. You were starting to identify with them. The thrill of the intellectual chase, the detached analysis of human suffering – was this a dangerous descent into the abyss you were studying?
Panic clawed at you. You slammed the laptop shut, the silence deafening. The storm outside had subsided, leaving an eerie stillness. A single tear traced a path down your cheek.
The next morning, you sought help. A therapist, a safe space to dissect your own darkness. It was a long, arduous journey, but slowly, the obsession loosened its grip. You learned to separate analysis from empathy, to understand the darkness without succumbing to it.
The fascination with psychos never fully disappeared. But now, it was a controlled curiosity, a reminder of the battle you fought and won. You channeled it into writing.
The rain returned, a gentle patter this time. You looked out the window, a newfound peace settling in your heart. The storm had passed, both outside
and within.
