Every therapy session they drag you to, every conversation you enter, every elaborate lie you spin to silence their questions: it all leads towards the same thing. They all want to know who you really are because the person you are now is just the result of some error; you can't really want to paint your face and blow up buildings – you could only ever want to do that because you had a funny uncle; because you're unable to connect to your emotions; because this amazing and good part of you is locked away beneath your grin, hidden by years of repressed memories and pain.

Or so they say.

Sometimes, you play along. You start from the top, and tell how you were that one lonely little kid at grade school with no lunch and poorly fitting clothes; the one who was quiet and never joined in because you were afraid of your 'friendly' Uncle, who always made you play these strange games, or your dearest Daddy, who favoured the bottle, or poor old Mummy, who was always busy with strange men you never knew.
You say how you hated junior high. You were the one with no friends, no free time, no money, and no nothing. You were the kid that always got picked on by the teachers because you were always in trouble. You were the kid who always got picked on – and worse – at home, too. You were the kid with no childhood; they kid who hated everything so much you thought you'd die.
You'd recount how high school was exactly the same – no friends, no girlfriend, nothing but enemies. Your favourite story to tell – especially to the female therapists – is the one in which you spend the night of senior prom trying to kill yourself. That one always gets a reaction.

The stories get more complex once tales of an unhappy childhood no longer suffice. Sometimes you might say you ran away from home, and got pressured into joining the mob. You might decide you found a wife whom you love dearly, but can't help but abuse. Or you could fall in deep with the loan sharks. Other times, you simply say that your darling Daddy made you stay.
And then comes the part when you say you didn't really want to work for the mob... or how you wanted your wife to know you loved her really... how you could never get enough money to pay to the sharks back and how Daddy never liked having a son who was so straight-faced and serious and one day... everything fell to pieces. Heh.

Sometimes you mix and match. Sometimes you only tell one part of the story. Sometimes you improvise something else. Sometimes you just don't talk at all and pretend it's so bad you can't even bear to think of it. Because at the end of the day, it all boils down to the same thing: once upon a time, you might have been that quiet, freaky kid no one talks to. You might have had a 'friendly' Uncle. You might have abused a loving wife. You don't remember, but it doesn't matter: all that matters is now. Bad things may have happened, and here you are, none the worse off for it – although not from their perspective. But they don't know. They don't see the way you see; they are not enlightened. None of them have ever snapped, ever fell to pieces, ever felt reality unwinding before their eyes. They all have the potential – you can see it in them, their spirits all already worn down by the thrills and spills of work in an insane asylum. And if there's one thing you know about madness, it's that all it needs a little push.