Conclusions
In this chapter I’ve described the first half of the psychopathic relationship. I’ve explained how Mallory can trick otherwise sane people into insane commitments. Her goal is to isolate her target. Alone, they will give her what she wants.
Maybe I’ve made it seem easy for Mallory. And often it seems to be. Yet the stakes are high on both sides. If her trap fails, Mallory has lost an opportunity. Worse, she may have revealed herself. So she must select her targets with care.
The best defenses against a psychopath are proactive. It is easier to keep Mallory away, than to fight her off once she is part of your life. I’ve explained how to be aware of oneself and others, of the situation and context. When you need nothing, and accept everything, you are immune to Mallory’s charms.
This strategy is not only an effective tool against Mallory. It also lets you build deeper, more solid relationships with Bobs and Alices. To find every person interesting is a humanistic and optimistic perspective.
Yet there are no guarantees. You, or someone you care about, will sooner or later get caught. Mallory will switch from charm and promises to different shades of violence. In the next chapter I’ll explain how this works and what it looks like.
The Feeding
The Doctor’s Daughter
"You’re looking chubby," he tells her, concerned, over dinner. She touches her face. She leaves her dessert. No appetite. They’ve been arguing a lot recently. She can’t get it. The first year they were together, he was fine. It is as if he became a different person.
Their fifth anniversary is coming up. He promises to take her out. She buys a new dress, she wants to be beautiful for him. On the day itself, he has to meet people. He will be home late. She spends the evening alone at home, hurt and angry. He comes home after midnight. He slides into bed beside her. She smells the alcohol, and pretends to be asleep.
He’s studying again. Business school, this time. Before that, marketing. Before that, Eastern philosophy. He studies evenings and weekends. She works office hours. They live together like uncomfortable strangers in an elevator. She wishes he’d get a proper job. When she says this, they fight. "They’re racist!" he tells her. "You don’t know how hard it is for a black man. You whites," he says, and she winces. "Go study," she says, "I want you to be happy."
Her mother never liked him. "He’s not a nice man," she says, shaking her head, after meeting him. "He doesn’t make you happy." She cuts her mother off, refuses to talk to her again. He is handsome. He is full of love. He makes her passionate and come alive. When she is with him, she feels energized, euphoric. It is magical. How can her mother be so petty and jealous?
"You have to forgive her," he tells her. "Her generation aren’t used to foreigners. Jealousy and hate, I know it so well. She’ll get over it in time." His eyes are moist and she sees five hundred years of pain. She hugs him and wonders how her mother can be so small-minded. She tries to kiss him, and he turns away. "I’m tired," he says, "Tomorrow."
They are always in debt. She doesn’t understand it. Before she met him, she’d never owed anyone money. She saved every month. Now, it seems she is scrabbling at every turn. They spend so much, on wasteful luxuries. Trips they can’t afford. Eating out, several times each week. A new car. New furniture. The worst part: he neglects everything.
He takes the car and brings it back with scratches. Then, dents and broken lights. What happened? she asks, furious and shocked. "Some idiot backed into me," he says. It is always someone else’s fault. "Did you fill in the insurance form?" she asks. "He drove off! I called the police of course."
She gets the post. Credit card statement. She opens it, glances at the total. What?! She reads again. No mistake. It’s more than her monthly salary. Her hands tremble, as she looks through the details. Some mistake! This isn’t her. She tries to make sense of the text. Her mind is slipping on ice. She grapples for balance.
The bank! The number is there on her statement. She calls them. Give me a real person… give me a person… ah.. "There’s been a mistake on my credit card" she blurts. They calm her down. Client number. Name. OK. They check. Madam, was your credit card stolen? "No," she says, "no, it wasn’t. I have it right here." Sorry madam, these are legitimate purchases. All confirmed with PIN code." She frowns. Who else knows her PIN code apart from her husband…?
When he comes back from his studies, she confronts him. He denies it flat out. "It’s one of those websites you shop on. I told you not to trust the Internet," he says. "Cancel the card, and if the bank won’t refund you, change banks. Damn thieves." It does not end well. She argues with her bank manager, and closes her accounts there. After years of the same bank! She sits shivering in anger, fear, insecurity. Her world is collapsing.
One day, she is too sick with flu to go to work. In the post she gets a letter with a court summons in her name. Unpaid traffic fines, more than a year of them. Her mind finds itself on slippery ice again. This is impossible! She parks with such attention! There’s a number for the bailiff. She calls to ask for details. The female voice is happy to explain. Eleven different parking violations. Unpaid despite many reminders for each one. Fines and costs are now over three thousand dollars. She sits in shock, unable to process.
I’m going mad, she thinks. I can’t take this. She weeps slow hot tears as she takes the bottle of sleeping pills, and puts a handful in her mouth. The black void pulls at her. Come, it says, why fight?
And then her phone rings. It’s him. "Where are you?" he asks, without pause. "At home," she tries to say. It comes out as a nasal mumble. "Don’t expect me home this evening," he continues, as if she’d not spoken. "I’ve got stuff to do, put the garbage out, OK?" He cuts the conversation. She holds the phone, stares out of window at the wordless city.
In her mind, an ancient door slides open. Something steps out. "No," it says, "not that way. We fight." The bottle of pills drops from her hand. Cold anger wipes out her self-pity. She spits the pills out onto the carpet.
She goes to the cupboard where her husband keeps his papers and books. It’s locked as always. She has a second key that he never knew about. She opens it. Inside there are piles of papers. She takes the piles one by one and goes through them. Finally she sees it: a plastic bag with letters. They are all addressed to her. Dozens and dozens of them.
The tickets. Then reminders. And second reminders, then final warnings, and penalties, and letters from lawyers…
She confronts him when he gets home. Waves the papers in his face, shouting, what is this? What IS this?
He looks at the letters, and then at her, and then explodes in rage. "You looked through my papers? How DARE you?" He slaps her, once, and then again, harder. She falls to the floor, in shock. He kicks her in the ribs, in the face, in the back. He shouts. "Never." Kick. "Touch." Kick. "My stuff!" Kick!
In the hospital, they recognize her name, and call her mother. The doctor checks her daughter. Nothing broken. She asks, "Did he do this?" and her daughter nods. She calls the police, who send a unit. They write up a statement, and then go to arrest him. He does not deny hitting her. It was her fault, he explains. She told me I’m too poor for her, and she kept taunting me with racist slurs. In the end I couldn’t help it, I got angry. It’s terrible, and I feel so bad about it. He is crying, miserable, a broken man.