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Title: How to Spot a Pathological Liar
Source:
HealthMad
URL Source: http://healthmad.com/mental-health/how-to-spot-a-pathological-liar/
Published: Jul 16, 2010
Author: MF Raguett
Post Date: 2010-08-12 20:26:41 by X-15
Keywords: None
Views: 434
Comments: 32
“Liar, Liar pants on fire….” So your wondering about pathological liars, well my friend you have come to the right place. My entire life I have know people who lie, I my self have told several lies in my troubled-some youth, so needless to say I know a lot about people who tell lies. There is one person in particular that I have know for many, many years she is a Pathological liar. She lies about what she ate for dinner, she lies about her hobbies anything and everything really. Now I know that confronting this person is not the right way to approach her, and here’s why… A pathological liar is usually a person who tells lies to make them selves look better, feel better and seem better. These people are often depressed with their lives, they often have very low self esteem and are lacking in social society. Confronting such a person can cause an emotional breakdown, where the lies they have told when confronted bring the person to the reality they are trying so desperately not to face. So how do you help the pathological liar? Well one approach is helping in a very subtle manner. Catch them in small fibs, if they said one day they spent ten bucks in gas to get somewhere and then tell the same story and change the number to twenty bucks, a small reminder it was only ten bucks. And do it often let them know with out being blunt you are listening, and in a way watching. Subconsciously the person will begin to catch themselves before they speak. This process can take many years and it may or may not work, I am not a professional Psychologist, just a human with experience. Being lied to whether intentional or nor makes us the victim so to speak, feel disrespected. Of course, this person isn’t trying to make you feel bad but rather make them selves feel better. If you feel the person truly needs help beyond your capabilities, or you want more professional advice, don’t be afraid to ask. A psychologist, a doctor someone in those professional can give advice and offer other resources. This person obviously has deeper issues then just telling lies and those are the issues that need to be dealt with the most. And if you yourself suffer from being a pathological liar, it is time to face the truth, “you need help!” How to Spot a Pathological Liar •They change their story all the time •They will exaggerate and lie about everything, the smallest and easiest things to tell the truth about and the big serious things •What ever you do, they can do it better. •They often don’t value the truth, and can often live in their own type of reality. •They will act defensively when questioned or challenged, they see their lies as not hurting anyone •They lie for sympathy or to seem better •They usually never own up to the lies •They contradict what they say, they lose track of the many lies told •They lie because they are insecure
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#1. To: X-15 (#0)
deleted
The relationship between morality and liberty is a directly proportional one.
Sounds like various people who post on message boards we have seen.
Somewhere, Jimmy Carter is laughing and saying, "Finally! I won't be the worst President ever!"
They post on DU/Free Republic/the-people's-forum/etc. ;-)
__________________________________________________________ deleted
The relationship between morality and liberty is a directly proportional one.
Their login name is Mad Dog.
deleted
The relationship between morality and liberty is a directly proportional one.
Or Badeye.
Remember that time I went all whup-ass on those Russkies and took their submarine?
"Chicago politicians are NOT officially dead until they have failed to vote in TWO presidential elections.” - Cynicom
Badeye was always telling people how they "weren't worth" a lie to him and went on and on about how honest he was. But Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons."
Liberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end. He (Gordon Duff) also implies that forcibly removing Obama, a Constitution-hating, on-the-down-low, crackhead Communist, is an attack on America, Mom, and apple pie. I swear these military people are worse than useless. Just look around at the condition of the country and tell me if they have fulfilled their oaths to protect the nation from all enemies foreign and domestic. Excellent quote! Kinda sad though at the realization that chicanery has become so profitable it was nationalized.
"Chicago politicians are NOT officially dead until they have failed to vote in TWO presidential elections.” - Cynicom
IIRC, you told me you hijacked a canoe from summer camp.
__________________________________________________________ Lovvvvvve Emerson. One of my favorite American Writers.
"One of the least understood strategies of the world revolution now moving rapidly toward its goal is the use of mind control as a major means of obtaining the consent of the people who will be subjects of the New World Order." K.M. Heaton, The National Educator
Why is everyone trying to destroy my bid for the presidency?
"Chicago politicians are NOT officially dead until they have failed to vote in TWO presidential elections.” - Cynicom
that's my experience..even when caught boldfaced, there's not a confession or admission that they lied.
deleted
The relationship between morality and liberty is a directly proportional one.
Birth certificate??
__________________________________________________________ You love a guy named Ralph Waldo? Wassa matter, ain't Chrissy's phalanx of Jims good enough for you? Sheesh, stuck up.
Actually, they lie because they have a pathological need to lie. They'll do for things that are meaningless and don't serve their self-interest. This is the core of being a real pathological liar. If it is a favorite lie they've told repeatedly, they'll even start to believe it themselves. I'd guess there are 3-5 pathological liars per thousand Americans, maybe more.
i love all my Jims ;)
I'd guess there are 3-5 pathological liars per thousand Americans, maybe more. I'm humbled, that's an even better eulogy for Rostenkowski than my bee parable.
"Chicago politicians are NOT officially dead until they have failed to vote in TWO presidential elections.” - Cynicom
Do you still have enough to fill an olympic-size pool?
Wassa matter, ain't Chrissy's phalanx of Jims good enough for you? Sheesh, stuck up. I've been an Emerson fan ever since I was forced to read "The American Scholar" for Wr 122. Of course Henry David Thoreau works too, as does Nathaniel Hawthorne (The Gray Champion - I still tear up every time I read it). There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. James II, the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny: a Governor and Council, holding office from the King, and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people immediate or by their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated, and the titles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and, finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector, or Popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects of Great Britain. At length a rumor reached our shores that the Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It was but a doubtful whisper: it might be false, or the attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man that stirred against King James would lose his head. Still the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold glances at their oppressors; while far and wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor's Guard, and made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets, less as the martial music of the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assembled in King Street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter between the troops of Britain, and a people struggling against her tyranny. Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. There were the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would have marked a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct; since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees, before a house was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip's war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence, as if there were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment, was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained. "Satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some, "because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King Street!" Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that period, that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the Primer. "The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew!" cried others. "We are to be massacred, man and male child!" Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force, and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief. "Stand firm for the old charter Governor!" shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea. "The good old Governor Bradstreet!" While this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised by the well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic mildness, besought them to submit to the constituted authorities. "My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England, and expect patiently what the Lord will do in this matter!" The event was soon to be decided. All this time, the roll of the drum had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were his favorite councillors, and the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blasted wretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government, and was followed with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil officers under the Crown, were also there. But the figure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representatives of prelacy and persecution, the union of church and state, and all those abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the people. On one side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, with the high churchman in the midst, and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience could be secured. "O Lord of Hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a Champion for thy people!" This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. The intervening space was empty--a paved solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged from among the people, and was walking by himself along the centre of the street, to confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak and a steeplecrowned hat, in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous gait of age. When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, then turned again, and resumed his way. "Who is this gray patriarch?" asked the young men of their sires. "Who is this venerable brother?" asked the old men among themselves. But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority, whom they must have known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop, and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making prayers, and leading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now. And the young! How could he have passed so utterly from their memories--that hoary sire, the relic of longdeparted times, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in childhood? "Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who can this old man be?" whispered the wondering crowd. Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ears, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now, he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon. "Stand!" cried he. The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in prayer, were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New England. The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor and Council, with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the Crown, had no alternative but obedience. "What does this old fellow here?" cried Edward Randolph, fiercely. "On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen--to stand aside or be trampled on!" "Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire," said Bullivant, laughing. "See you not, he is some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and knows nothing o' the change of times? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll's name!" "Are you mad, old man?" demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh tones. "How dare you stay the march of King James's Governor?" "I have stayed the march of a King himself, ere now," replied the gray figure, with stern composure. "I am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place; and beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the good old cause of his saints. And what speak ye of James? There is no longer a Popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrow noon, his name shall be a byword in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. Back, thou wast a Governor, back! With this night thy power is ended--to-morrow, the prison!--back, lest I foretell the scaffold!" The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to convert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no word which might discover. But whether the oppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look, or perceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners, and long ere it was known that James had abdicated, King William was proclaimed throughout New England. But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that, when the troops had gone from King Street, and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed, that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The men of that generation watched for his reappearance, in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his gravestone was. And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern Court of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times, for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I have heard, that whenever the descendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires, the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he walked once more in King Street. Five years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he stood on the green, beside the meeting-house, at Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the Revolutions. And when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be, ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come, for he is the type of New England's hereditary spirit; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge, that New England's sons will vindicate their ancestry.
"One of the least understood strategies of the world revolution now moving rapidly toward its goal is the use of mind control as a major means of obtaining the consent of the people who will be subjects of the New World Order." K.M. Heaton, The National Educator
`Mistah Kurtz--he dead.'
"Chicago politicians are NOT officially dead until they have failed to vote in TWO presidential elections.” - Cynicom
Here is the perfect example of a pathological liar.
Click for Privacy and Preparedness files Live free or You can either surf, or you can fight!
WWGPD? - (What Would General Pinochet Do?)
It is time once more.
I've only met one truly pathological liar and he was just amazing. He once told me he saved a guy's life when his heart was hanging out of his chest and he ran over and pinched the arteries shut. And I heard this stuff every day. And he told it with a completely straight face.
“How many Sex and the City fans have funneled all their maternal instincts into their Chinese bulldog without even noticing their ovaries have expired?”
I'd pay cash money to have this kind of guy hanging around. The humor factor of it would keep me chuckling day in and day out. :)
"The more artificial taboos and restrictions there are in the world, the more the people are impoverished.... The more that laws and regulations are given prominence, the more thieves and robbers there will be." - Lao Tzu, 6th century BC
He told me his father retired as a vice-president of IBM, and now enjoyed his retirement selling plaster statutes out of the back of his 20-year-old pickup truck
“How many Sex and the City fans have funneled all their maternal instincts into their Chinese bulldog without even noticing their ovaries have expired?”
Let the Champion again stand forth And may Men heed his call A terrible accounting is past due Again as on Lexington Green May the shot be heard As again the spirit rises Let Liberty's right stand tall again As the shot heard round the world
"One of the least understood strategies of the world revolution now moving rapidly toward its goal is the use of mind control as a major means of obtaining the consent of the people who will be subjects of the New World Order." K.M. Heaton, The National Educator
An excellent anthology. Thank you for the memories.
"we ought to lay off the criticism" -- Pinguinite, circa 2010-05-26 22:17:22 ET
#2. To: X-15 (#0)
They will act defensively when questioned or challenged, they see their lies as not hurting anyone
#3. To: Eric Stratton (#1)
"This man is Jesus,” shouted one man, spilling his Guinness as Barack Obama began his inaugural address. “When will he come to Kenya to save us?"
-Schweizerische Schuetzenzeitung (Swiss Shooting Federation) April, 1941
#4. To: X-15 (#3)
#5. To: Eric Stratton (#1)
#6. To: JRiggs (#5)
#7. To: Eric Stratton (#6)
#8. To: X-15 (#0)
If you feel the person truly needs help beyond your capabilities, or you want more professional advice, don’t be afraid to ask. A psychologist, a doctor someone in those professional can give advice and offer other resources.
#9. To: JRiggs (#7)
Or Badeye.
Lord Acton
OsamaBinGoldstein posted on 2010-05-25 9:39:59 ET (2 images) Reply Trace
#10. To: James Deffenbach (#9)
"The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
#11. To: Dakmar (#8)
Remember that time I went all whup-ass on those Russkies and took their submarine?
"This man is Jesus,” shouted one man, spilling his Guinness as Barack Obama began his inaugural address. “When will he come to Kenya to save us?"
-Schweizerische Schuetzenzeitung (Swiss Shooting Federation) April, 1941
#12. To: James Deffenbach (#9)
#13. To: X-15 (#11)
IIRC, you told me you hijacked a canoe from summer camp.
#14. To: X-15 (#11)
#15. To: X-15 (#0)
•They usually never own up to the lies
#16. To: JRiggs (#7)
#17. To: Dakmar (#13)
Why is everyone trying to destroy my bid for the presidency?
"This man is Jesus,” shouted one man, spilling his Guinness as Barack Obama began his inaugural address. “When will he come to Kenya to save us?"
-Schweizerische Schuetzenzeitung (Swiss Shooting Federation) April, 1941
#18. To: Original_Intent, christine (#12)
Mike Flaherty: Yeah, it's been there a long time. I wish I knew which corner.
My Man Godfrey (1936)
#19. To: X-15 (#0)
A pathological liar is usually a person who tells lies to make them selves look better, feel better and seem better.
#20. To: Esso (#18)
Chrissy's phalanx of Jims
#21. To: TooConservative, Esso (#19)
Actually, they lie because they have a pathological need to lie. They'll do for things that are meaningless and don't serve their self-interest. This is the core of being a real pathological liar. If it is a favorite lie they've told repeatedly, they'll even start to believe it themselves.
#22. To: christine (#20)
i love all my Jims
Mike Flaherty: Yeah, it's been there a long time. I wish I knew which corner.
My Man Godfrey (1936)
#23. To: Esso, christine (#18)
You love a guy named Ralph Waldo?
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
#24. To: Original_Intent (#23)
#25. To: X-15, 4 (#0)
die kill ~~ Me
God is a separatist. That's good enough for me.
#26. To: Dakmar (#24)
`Mistah Kurtz--he dead.'
#27. To: Original_Intent, 4 (#23)
But should domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come, for he is the type of New England's hereditary spirit; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge, that New England's sons will vindicate their ancestry.
#28. To: X-15 (#0)
#29. To: Turtle (#28)
I've only met one truly pathological liar and he was just amazing. He once told me he saved a guy's life when his heart was hanging out of his chest and he ran over and pinched the arteries shut. And I heard this stuff every day. And he told it with a completely straight face.
#30. To: SonOfLiberty (#29)
I'd pay cash money to have this kind of guy hanging around. The humor factor of it would keep me chuckling day in and day out. :)
#31. To: Lod (#27)
It is time once more.
#32. To: Itistoolate (#14)
A Symphony of Lies
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