Just now I thought of something better to write. Typical.

There is a bit of truth to the cultural complaint that “These Days” parents who fail to discipline their unruly children can casually chalk it all up to ADHD and put them on medication that makes watching after them immensely easier. Personally, I don’t like nodding my head while my great aunt blathers about how a relative (who would endanger himself and others without his medication) could have turned out all right had his parents spanked him now and then, but I understand where she is coming from. I feel similarly toward people who think bad headaches are migraines or fleeting moments of fear are full-on panic attacks—this kind of misinformed self-diagnosis is cause for deep annoyance from those who have actually suffered from migraines or panic attacks.

In spite of myself, I tend to place diagnoses on the unsettling characters in my life. Early in my university years I befriended a socially awkward student who was a fantastic liar. From “embellishing” to glossing over the facts to inventing some of the tallest tales I’ve heard from someone over the age of 10, this guy showed no outward signs that he was overflowing with lies. It took me a while to see through him, but with the help of some observant and knowledgeable mutual friends, we eventually had him figured out. Despite his little problem, I remained his friend, telling myself that behind the lies he was by no means a bad person. He was just a mythomaniac.

It practically goes without saying that the friendship didn’t last forever. He developed the intriguing tendency to cut off contact with people without visible cause or explanation, and about the third time he did this to me, he didn’t come back. Over the course of six months he became increasingly odd, antisocial, and unlikeable. I imagined it was some confused combination of social anxiety, schizoid personality disorder, and his confusion about his sexuality (not a Freudian reading but a fact). I would have washed my hands of him had he not started dating his ex-girlfriend—who happened to be my best friend and roommate. At this point, annoyance exploded into drama, and a year later I’m telling myself that John is a mad alchemist who has made social brokenness into a fine powder and regularly administered it to my roommate, who has seen a sudden and severe decline in her personality. (I haven’t had time to Wikipedia-doctor recent developments, so my mind has jumped to the realm of conspiracy/fantasy.)

In the spirit of Lewontin, I wonder what would have changed or could change if John was diagnosed by someone with a lot more experience. If he sought counseling or took medication, would he act differently? Would his worldview or actions change if someone credible told him that he was abnormal? And would “labeling” him be for the better or worse?

I think most people would look at John, especially after he was unkind to them, and just think of him as a “Bad Person”—someone randomly unkind and completely unworthy of further attention. For reasons beyond me, I feel the need to diagnose him, to tell myself and others that it is a disorder that makes him this way—one more complicated than a heart two sizes too small. Perhaps it is lasting affection for our friendship past, perhaps it is an attempt to make sense of his bizarre behavior. Perhaps my predisposition to diagnose people is something that could be diagnosed.

I think Pinker would see me as someone who is unwittingly following his narrow view of personality. By trying to put my universe in order, I’ve turned to shaky science, hoping it will tell me that people I dislike or fear are the way they are because it’s in their genes. They can’t help being horrible, and I shouldn’t think they’re entirely at fault for their own ineptitude. Maybe with a degree in psychology I could back my claims, but for now I’m stuck in a place where the more I look into the human mind the less it makes sense.