Patrick Bateman, the protagonist in Bret Easton Ellis’ novel American Psycho, has the complexity and frustration of a colossal puzzle with several imperative pieces missing. There is no relief to the frantic search, for the search always turns up empty. And that is because he’s empty inside. No feelings, no remorse, no conscience, no real substance, except for his burning desire to commit violent, horrendous acts upon living things and beings. But, at least he’s real with that aspect of his being, as heinous as it may be. The aspect envelops him whole until the desire to kill is so overwhelming, he can’t do anything but to be swept in by the violent tidal wave of absolute destruction.

Patrick, in the section “End of the 1980s,” says,

“… there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity: Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this–and I have, countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed–and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing …”

But this confession has meant something. Patrick’s honesty with his true nature — that of sheer ruination, vain masks and facades, barbaric killings — is what makes him finally accept who he is. Never mind it is in the complete opposite direction of human kind’s progression. But he’s accepted this fact, that his constant pains are there and shall always remain.

I am strongly opposed to violence towards people and animals and would hardly choose to resolve a conflict with brute, physical force. The fact that I can is only present for self-defense and protection, whenever the situation may arise. Thus far, it has not arisen, minus a few instances where I had to forcefully push and tell a guy to back off when his aggressive sexual advances were not being met. In the interest of my own preservation and dignity, I did what had to be done. They would do the same if the situation was flipped around.

The moral standards I uphold does not diminish my involved interest in extreme personalities and lifestyles, be it constructive or destructive. It merely expands my understanding of the broad complexities and intricacies of humanity’s horizon, that there are a million other divergent personalities under the sun, that we are all living, as in breathing, but some of us are not fully there.

I have seen the vacant looks of those who trudge through life with no glimmer of hope on the horizon, no wishes to impart, no motivation to live anymore. I have seen the vacant looks because I have seen it in myself in the past. The mirror never lies. What is there, is shown. What is within, we know deep down inside of us what needs to be done to correct course, to feel alive again. But at times, this is the hardest thing to do, like asking to build a space shuttle out of scrap metal found in the junk yard. Something as infinitely elegant as a space shuttle cannot operate on the lowest qualities of metals and coppers. The project has failed before it even begun.

So what needs to be done? What can we do in order to not only feel whole again, but to be whole? The answer is within. It has always been there. Sometimes, one just needs to simply turn to the mirror — to turn within, earnestly ask the questions that move the soul to bittersweet tears, and listen for the honest response.