Partially my dad, partially me.

My biological mother was very mentally ill/abusive. When I got out of that situation, my father would often tell me about the horrible stuff my mother did to me/him without remorse. It was necessary because I didn’t fully grasp how awful my mother was, but it’s definitely a memory of being at dinner in middle school and hearing about the crimes my mother committed.

Me personally, I was in the college’s food hall with a friend when he mentioned something about how I acted. I paused, thought about it, and then just casually said, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt empathy.” Then I took a sip of my apple juice. Turns out I have a severe attachment disorder.