I dated a sociopath for 3 months. Let’s call him, Chad. Most places would consider that to be a fling, but in Los Angeles, it’s referred to as a serious relationship. Now I’m not calling Chad a sociopath because I’m jaded. Trust me, I’ve dated lots of men, and I don’t label them all  sociopaths. For example, one boyfriend I was with for most of my 20s, pushed me so hard during an argument that my body slammed into the wall. I fell while cutting my back on the sharp edge of an air freshener and began to bleed. I had a scar on my back for years. Same guy, different night, told me, “I want you to die…young.” He specifically added the word young knowing it would touch my deepest wound…the wound of my mother dying young when I was a baby. Annnnd…it did. Though at the time, my childhood pain was so buried. I had never dealt with any of it. But, he knew. He knew how sad her absence made me feel. He knew my acute fear of becoming just like her. I’ll never forget that moment. I instantaneously cried and was in shock with how much it affected me. I couldn’t stop shedding tears for days, and the confusion of why it scarred me so much made it even more painful. Now, was that guy an absolute dick? Yes. Was he physically and verbally abusive? Yes. But, was he a sociopath? I really don’t think so. There are a garden variety of jerks out there, but they’re not all sociopaths. With Chad though, there were no blows or cuts from air fresheners, just a web of lies…and honestly I think that’s worse. Okay, they’re both bad, but I still think Chad is worse.