'I am a sociopath and I love it': DR PATRIC GAGNE has strangled a cat, broken into homes and stabbed a child in the head - all while feeling no guilt or shame. Now she's a psychologist who says everyone should be like her...

Patric Gagne is a happily married mother of two. She’s a successful therapist and a member of a country club, she owns a dog and a cat, and right now she’s smiling so widely I fear her face might crack in two as she tells me, ‘I’m a sociopath. And I love it!’

‘I’m a liar and a thief. I’m emotionally manipulative. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t feel shame,’ continues Gagne, who does school drop-off and pick-up every day with other mums who are just like her – on the surface.

With her specs perched on the end of her nose, Gagne, 48, is attractive, friendly and upbeat – but I’m still a bit scared of her. After all, this is a woman who freely admits to adopting a charming persona to make people like her. She’s also confessed to stealing regularly, joyriding and breaking into people’s houses just for the hell of it.

When she was seven, she stabbed another child in the head with a pencil (no long-term harm was done, but still…). Once, bored, she even tried to strangle a cat.

Sociopaths, according to Gagne, exist on a spectrum. While they can feel love and sadness (if sporadically), the ‘social emotions’ such as jealousy, empathy, shame and guilt are inaccessible to them. This emotional void is a frightening place to be, so they try to access feelings through bad behaviour.

If you google ‘famous sociopaths’ you’ll find dictators Hitler and Stalin, serial killers Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy and Harold Shipman and notorious fraudsters such as Bernie Madoff. Yet here’s Gagne, sitting in her book-lined office on the US east coast (she doesn’t want to reveal the location), happily aligning herself with these villains.

In her book Sociopath: A Memoir, she not only tells her extraordinary story, she also – and this is a sentence I never thought I’d write – urges us to be more understanding of sociopaths, who, she says, suffer from an ‘emotional learning difficulty’, lacking the conscience that keeps most of us on the straight and narrow.

After all, sociopaths are estimated to make up approximately one in 20 (about 30 million) Americans, of whom very few are the hardened criminals you see in screen dramas such as Dexter and Killing Eve. They are far more likely to be your neighbours, colleagues, friends or relations. ‘But you’d never suspect us,’ says Gagne. 

‘People want to believe you can spot a sociopath, but we learn from an early age – at least I did – to conceal that we don’t feel like others and  use destructive behaviour as a coping mechanism. So, we learn to blend right in.’

This number – equating to something like three million people in the UK alone – ‘is roughly the same as for those who suffer from depression or bipolar disorder,’ says Gagne. ‘Yet there are no self-help manuals, no support groups, no treatment options for sociopathy. To me, that sounds insane.’

Indeed, many professionals are hostile to the idea of helping sociopaths, even though intervention could help stop them committing serious crimes. 

In Gagne’s therapy training, a fellow student pronounced she’d rather their child have cancer than be a sociopath. Gagne’s revenge on that individual was to burn the letters T-A-I-N-T on her lawn with salt, but the comments also strengthened her resolve to raise awareness.

‘I’m not trying to minimise sociopathy. I’m saying there’s nothing immoral or inherently wrong about not feeling empathy. People like me are just different – it’s our behaviour that’s wrong at times. Just because I don’t care about you doesn’t mean I want to cause you pain.

Sociopathy exists on a spectrum just like any other disorder – there are extreme examples who commit heinous crimes, yet you can also be a sociopath and be educated and be in a productive relationship. But to be that way you need help to understand why you’re the way you are.’

Named Patricia by her music-industry executive father and estate-agent mother, Gagne spent her early years in San Francisco. She started stealing before she could talk.

To this day one of her proudest possessions is a pair of glasses swiped from the nose of one Ringo Starr. (Gagne met the Beatle when she was a toddler because of her father’s job.)

At school she felt isolated, baffled that classmates felt remorse if they lied or sorry for other children who’d hurt themselves. ‘Mostly I felt nothing,’ she recalls. ‘And I didn’t like how that nothing felt.’

Her desperation to experience some – any – emotion manifested itself as an ‘overwhelming pressure’, which only eased if Gagne did something so bad it gave her an adrenaline rush that temporarily lifted her default emptiness. 

Years later she understood how most people’s brains are wired to feel empathy; how people who lack this are compelled to be violent or destructive in an attempt to make them feel like others. ‘It’s like being short-sighted,’ she explains. ‘You really have to squint to connect to these emotions. It’s exhausting.’

One emotion she did feel was love, although she suspects her version is ‘very different to, and less emotional than’ the one most of us know. Her ‘emotional compass’ was her mother, who was distraught at how often her daughter landed in trouble. Not wanting to upset one of the few people she cared for, Gagne tried to behave. Then her parents divorced: she moved with her mother and younger (non-sociopathic) sister to Florida.

There, her mother was distracted. Gagne’s loneliness intensified. Classmates disliked her. Once she locked some of them in a school bathroom, listening to their screams with detached interest, wondering why they were scared. ‘I felt calm, I felt high,’ she recalls.

Gagne was 11 when her uncle gave the family a tour of the state prison, where he worked. Watching its convicted murderers, rapists and arsonists over CCTV, a guard told her that 80 per cent were sociopaths, a word she’d never heard before. 

‘They don’t feel bad about what they do,’ he said. A light went on in her head. ‘My mother and sister were apprehensive in that environment but I was just fascinated. It was simultaneously concerning and comforting that there was a word for people like me, even if it wasn’t the best word.’

As Gagne grew older, she made a pact with herself that she’d break rules – ‘to make myself feel alive’ – but wouldn’t physically harm anyone, not because she cared about hurting them but because that would increase the risk of her getting caught. She stole from church collection plates, played truant and broke into empty houses. 

Once, she began throttling a cat to alleviate her flatness but – remembering the no-hurting rule – released it. ‘Violence,’ she says, ‘was a slippery slope for me.’

At the University of California in Los Angeles, Gagne took psychology classes, investigating the difference between sociopathy and psychopathy, discovering how psychopaths have brain abnormalities that make it impossible for them ever to develop complex emotional responses. 

Sociopaths, by contrast, have brains similar to everyone else and can slowly ‘learn’ emotions. With this in mind, she began copying other people’s mannerisms, touching their arms while talking and smiling, to make people warm to her and to help her finally assimilate.

At the same time, she worked out a ‘prescription for my apathy’ in the form of stealing car keys from drunk students so she could take their cars on joyrides. Later, while holding down a job as a nanny, she allowed herself ‘sociopathic relief’ by adhering to a strict timetable where she broke into houses on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Eventually, Gagne confessed her activities to her astonished father. He paid for a therapist, who confirmed that Gagne was a sociopath – but one who was ‘empathy-seeking’. 

In other words, there was hope for her. She had cognitive behavioural therapy, learning ‘healthier’ ways to deal with her apathy than committing crimes – usually in the form of conversation or a firm word with herself: ‘Knowing why I do the things I do took 80 per cent of the air out of the balloon for me.’

Gagne began studying for a psychology PhD, supporting her studies by working as a music manager. She was honest with colleagues about her condition, but rather than being repelled by her, many were fascinated and envious of her talents for manipulation, ruthlessness and backstabbing — characteristics rampant in the music industry. 

Since then, she’s found, ‘Pretty much everyone who knows I’m a sociopath wants to get closer to me. Everyone has some darkness in them and the idea of being around someone who can accept yours without judgment is very appealing to a lot of people.’

Another surprise came when, after qualifying as a therapist, she found she had plenty to offer in showing people how to detach from overwhelming emotions. ‘I’d teach patients to think like a sociopath: “Why do you care so much about this problem? What does it matter to you?” I do the same with my children.’ 

As for her sociopathic patients – ‘I see relief on their faces because they don’t have to mask any more and they feel less alone.’ She only recently stopped practising to focus on her writing and advocating for sociopaths.

At 32, she married David, who works in tech. He is two years her senior, and they’d dated on and off since she was 14. Gagne had always been frank about her sociopathy but it took years for him to fully appreciate that Gagne really was wired differently to him and not just inventing excuses for bad behaviour. 

He was worried what secrets she might reveal in the book, ‘because I don’t always understand how people will interpret things’, and so kept a close eye on the manuscript.

‘My publisher jokes he wants to get his hands on what he calls David’s vault, because every single page went to my husband first and there were so many times when he said, “You can’t publish this. No one should ever see that!”’

What about the reaction of her children, now 13 and eight? Unsurprisingly, as someone who doesn’t get emotional, Gagne can’t really see why this might be an issue. ‘They understand it’s not appropriate for them to read my book,’ she shrugs. ‘There’s always a risk someone will berate or tease them. But I’m not the first person to have written a book that’s controversial. So, we’ll just take it day by day.’

As research shows, sociopathy peaks in people’s 20s and, today, Gagne says, ‘Most of my destructive tendencies have gone by the wayside.’ She’s not ‘a social person’ but has a handful of close friends. Observing them has made her realise that a sociopath’s life is ‘pretty great.

I see them grappling with guilt and shame, worrying about what they should and shouldn’t do, their calendars crammed with things that they don’t want to do but feel obliged to. I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with any of that. It seems like a very heavy weight.’

David takes on duties that she hates, such as attending kids’ birthday parties and school functions; in return, she’s shown him how to sometimes put himself first. ‘He was very conflicted about going to visit his family for Christmas, there were some toxic dynamics. My question was why go? He said, “Because that’s what you do.”

I said, “Hold on, is this actually something you want to do?”’

Equally, because she doesn’t understand jealousy, she had no problem with David confessing a crush on a colleague. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ she laughs. ‘I’m hardly your dream girl!’

So, what keeps Gagne on the rails, preventing her from planning huge bank heists and harming anyone who gets in her way? ‘The decisions that I make are based on logic. I like my life, being married and living in this house, having friends. But I also know that, in order to continue to enjoy those things, I have to abide by society’s codes.’

Every now and then, however, Gagne still goes rogue. ‘If I come home from the grocery store and anything I’ve purchased has gone off, I’ll make a mental note: I’m stealing this next time. It’s the silver lining – there has to be one to being a sociopath!’

Now she’s a public sociopath, won’t it be weird showing up at school for parents’ evening and having the other attendees nudge each other? ‘Losing my anonymity is bittersweet,’ she admits, laughing. ‘I’m not just getting rid of it, I’m lighting a fire under it. 

But after more than 40 years of being misunderstood, it’s just so exciting to finally have people understand what being a sociopath means.’

Sociopath: A Memoir by Patric Gagne PhD is published by Bluebird on 11 April, £18.99. To pre-order a copy for £16.14 until 21 April, go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937. Free UK delivery on orders over £25. 

I am a sociopath and I knew something was off by the age of seven... after I enjoyed stabbing a kid in the head with a pencil

• EXCLUSIVE book extract from DR PATRIC GAGNE's new book Sociopath: A Memoir

In second grade I stabbed a kid in the head with a pencil. Whenever I ask my mother if she remembers, her answer is the same: ‘Vaguely.’

And I believe her. Because so much about my early childhood is vague. Some things, however, I remember with absolute clarity. I knew as early as seven that something was off. I didn’t care about things the way other kids did. Certain emotions – like happiness and anger – came naturally, if somewhat sporadically. 

But social emotions – things like guilt, empathy, remorse and even love – did not. Most of the time, I felt nothing. So I did ‘bad’ things to make the nothingness go away. It was like a compulsion.

Had you asked me back then, I would have described this compulsion as a pressure, a sort of tension building in my head. It was like mercury slowly rising in an old-fashioned thermometer.

At first it was barely noticeable, just a blip on my otherwise peaceful cognitive radar. But over time it would get stronger. The quickest way to relieve the pressure was to do something undeniably wrong, something I knew would absolutely make anyone else feel one of the emotions I couldn’t. So that’s what I did.

As a child, I didn’t realise there were other options. I didn’t know anything about emotion or psychology. I didn’t understand that the human brain has evolved to function empathetically, or that the stress of living without natural access to feeling is believed to be one of the causes of compulsive acts of violence and destructive behaviour.

All I knew was that I liked doing things that made me feel something, to feel anything. It was better than nothing.

I’d been taking backpacks from school. I didn’t even want them, and almost always eventually returned them. When I saw an unattended backpack, I took it. It didn’t matter where it was or whose it was, it was the taking that mattered. Doing anything I knew wasn’t ‘right’ was how I released the pressure, how I gave myself a jolt to counter my apathy.

After a while, though, it stopped working. Regardless of how many bags I took, I could no longer generate that jolt. I felt nothing. And the nothingness, I’d started to notice, made my urge to do bad things more extreme.

This was my state of mind the last time I ever saw Syd, one of my classmates. We were on the sidewalk waiting to go to school when she started whining about visiting my house. 

She’d wanted to spend the night but her parents refused and she blamed me. I was glad she wasn’t allowed to visit. My head was hurting. The pressure had been steadily increasing, yet nothing I did seemed to help. I was emotionally disconnected but also stressed and somewhat disoriented.

It was like I was losing my mind, and I just wanted to be alone.

Abruptly, Syd kicked my backpack from where it sat at my feet, knocking everything to the ground. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I don’t care. Your house sucks, and so do you.’

The tantrum was meaningless, something she’d done to get my attention like countless times before. But she’d picked the wrong day to start a fight. Looking at Syd I knew that I never wanted to see her again.

Without a word, I leaned down to collect my things. We carried pencil boxes back then. Mine was pink with Hello Kitty characters and full of sharpened yellow #2s. I grabbed one, stood up and jammed it into the side of her head. The pencil splintered and part of it lodged in her neck. Syd started screaming and the other kids understandably lost it. 

Meanwhile, I was in a daze. The pressure was gone. But, unlike every other time I’d done something bad, my physical attack on Syd had resulted in something different – a sort of euphoria.

I walked away from the scene blissfully at ease. For weeks I’d been engaging in all manner of subversive behaviour to make the pressure disappear and none of it had worked. But now – with that one violent act – all traces of pressure  were eradicated. Not just gone but replaced with a deep sense of peace. It was like I’d discovered a fast track to tranquillity, one that was equal parts efficacy and madness. 

None of it made sense, but I didn’t care.

I wandered around in a stupor for a while. Then I went home and calmly told my mum what had happened.

‘WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND?’ my father wanted to know. I was sitting at the foot of my bed later that night. Both my parents stood before me, demanding answers. But I didn’t have any.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.

I just did it.’

‘And you’re not sorry?’ Dad was frustrated and irritable. He’d just returned from another work trip, and they’d been fighting.

‘Yes! I said I was sorry!’ I exclaimed. I’d even already written Syd an apology letter. So why was everyone still so mad?

‘But you’re not sorry,’ Mum said quietly. ‘Not really. Not in your heart.’ Then she looked at me as if I was a stranger. It paralysed me, that look. It was a look of hazy recognition, as if to say, ‘There’s something off about you. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I can feel it.’

My stomach lurched as though I’d been punched. I hated the way my mother stared at me that night. She’d never done it before, and I wanted her to stop. Seeing her look at me that way was like being observed by someone who didn’t know me at all. Suddenly, I was furious with myself for telling the truth. It hadn’t helped anyone ‘understand.’ 

If anything, it had made everyone more confused, including me. Anxious to make things right, I stood up and tried to hug her, but she lifted her hand to stop me.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She stared at me long and hard once more, and then she left. I watched as Dad followed her out of my room, their frames becoming smaller as they descended the staircase.

I crawled into bed and wished I had someone I could hurt, so I could feel the way I did after stabbing Syd. Settling for myself, I squeezed a pillow to my chest, digging my nails into my forearm.

‘Be sorry!’ I hissed. I continued to claw at my skin and clench my jaw, willing remorse with all my might.

I can’t remember how long I tried, only that I was desperate and furious once I finally gave up. Exhausted, I collapsed back into the bed. I looked at my arm. It was bleeding.

The euphoria I’d felt after stabbing Syd was both disconcerting and tempting. I wanted to experience it again. I wanted to hurt again. Only I didn’t want to. I was confused and scared. I wasn’t sure how things had gone so wrong. I just knew it was all my fault, and I had to find a way to make it better.

• Read YOU Magazine's exclusive interview with DR PATRIC GAGNE this weekend 

Taken from Sociopath: A Memoir by Patric Gagne PhD, to be published by Bluebird on 11 April, £18.99. To pre-order a copy for £16.14 until 21 April, go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937. Free UK delivery on orders over £25.