Capitalism’s Toll: A Perspective of Sociopathy and Greed

 

I’ve spent years thinking about how the systems we live under shape us—not just our wallets, but our minds, our hearts, our very ability to care for one another. Lately, I’ve been chewing on this idea that capitalism, the engine we’re told keeps the world spinning, might be churning out something darker: a kind of sociopathic mental illness. Not in everyone, mind you, but in the folks who thrive at the top, the ones who seem to lose any shred of empathy the higher they climb. I see it, and I feel it, especially when I look at my people—getting squeezed harder every day while the winners of this game act like it’s all just business.

Let’s start with the basics. I think capitalism, at its core, runs on a simple rule: pay out as little as possible and rake in as much as you can. It’s not a secret—it’s the playbook. If I’m running a business, I know I’ve got to make more off my workers than I pay them, or what’s the point? I hire someone, they bust their back, and I pocket the difference. That’s the deal. We all know it, even if we don’t say it out loud. But here’s where it gets ugly: to win at this, I’ve got to keep costs low—real low. And the easiest cost to cut? Labor. My labor. Your labor. The people who actually make the wheels turn.

I’ve seen it happen. Companies don’t pay what the work’s worth—not because they can’t, but because they don’t have to. I mean, wages aren’t set by fairness; they’re set by what the market will bear. If I offer peanuts and someone’s desperate enough to take it, that’s the new baseline. Keep it just high enough so folks don’t walk away, but low enough to fatten the bottom line. It’s a cold calculation, and I can’t help but wonder: how do you sleep at night knowing you’re banking on someone else’s desperation?

Then there’s the benefits—or lack of them. I’ve talked to workers who’ve gone years without a paid day off, no health care, no vacation. Companies cut those corners because it saves a buck. Replace a human with a machine? Even better. Sure, the machine costs upfront, but it doesn’t need a break, doesn’t get sick, doesn’t unionize. I’ve seen factories where the hum of automation drowned out the chatter of workers who used to be there. It’s efficient, I’ll give it that. But efficient for who? Not the guy who’s now out of a job, that’s for damn sure.

And don’t get me started on raw materials. I’ve heard about big chains—coffee giants, for instance—sourcing cheap beans and sugar from places where kids and forced labor do the grunt work. Child labor in Ghana, slave labor in Honduras—it’s not a glitch; it’s a feature. I think about that every time I pass a fancy coffee shop. They’re saving money, sure, but at what cost? Not to their conscience, apparently. The folks making those calls don’t seem to lose sleep over the kids picking cocoa beans. It’s just numbers to them—cheaper inputs, bigger profits. I can’t wrap my head around that kind of disconnect.

Take care workers, too. Home health aides—mostly women, often minorities or undocumented—making a median of $33,000 a year. They’re wiping brows, lifting bodies, keeping the elderly alive, and their bosses? Pulling in $250,000 to $300,000. That gap isn’t an accident. It’s built on paying as little as possible to the people who can’t fight back. I’ve seen these workers, exhausted, juggling kids of their own, and their employers don’t blink. No bleeding hearts there—just a shrug and a paycheck that barely covers rent. How do you look at that and not feel something?

Here’s the kicker: the winners in this system don’t just get rich—they get celebrated. I’ve noticed how we’re taught to admire wealth, no matter how it’s made. Take the big names—guys who started with millions from their dads, like a certain former president or a tech mogul with emerald mine roots. They didn’t claw their way up; they were born halfway to the finish line. But because they’ve got the cash, we’re supposed to see them as geniuses. I don’t buy it. Wealth doesn’t make you superior—it just makes you richer. And when that wealth buys elections or influence, it’s not success; it’s power over the rest of us.

I think about how they grew up, too. Mansions, servants, snapping fingers to get what they want. I heard a story once about a kid in South Africa, maybe five years old, calling a servant “bearer” to move him across a pool. That’s not a one-off—it’s a mindset. If you’re raised thinking people exist to serve you, why would you care what they take home to their own kids? I can’t imagine living like that, so detached from the folks who keep your world running. It’s not just privilege; it’s a sickness—a break from the basic human instinct to connect.

And the tricks they pull? I’ve read about contractors getting stiffed—sign a deal, do the work, then get told it wasn’t good enough. The rich guy drags it to court, knowing the little guy can’t afford the fight. Settle for half, or nothing. It’s not sloppy business; it’s strategy. I see that and think: how do you face yourself in the mirror? But they don’t have to. Capitalism rewards it. Take more, give less, and you’re a hero.

Look at who’s running things now. Billionaires heading up government departments—efficiency, commerce, education, you name it. Ambassadors living it up in Paris. They didn’t get those billions by sharing. I’d bet my last dollar they’ve never thought, “I’ve got enough—let’s help someone else.” Meanwhile, half of American households have less than $8,000 saved. That’s a car repair, a medical bill, gone. How long can you stretch that? Not long. But the folks at the top? They’re not sweating it.

I heard about a woman recently. Single mom, two kids, rent spiked, no help from the system. Shelters full, agencies useless. She parked her van in a garage to keep her kids safe. They froze to death—two and nine years old. I can’t shake that. The landlords, the bureaucrats, the ones who could’ve stepped in—they’re not crying over it. They’re “successful” because they didn’t budge. I call that sociopathy. Caring about people isn’t weakness; it’s what keeps us human.

But here’s the flip side: I’m seeing people fight back. For the first time in decades, workers are waking up. Tesla showrooms in New York? Picketed every Saturday. I heard 1,500 showed up once—not buying cars, just raising hell. That stock’s taken a hit, and even the bigwigs are scrambling to hawk them. Farmers in Massachusetts rolled out tractors to protest slashed eco-loans—hundreds of them, clogging the roads. Republicans are canceling town halls because folks are showing up furious, screaming about cuts they didn’t expect to hit them. I love it. We’re the majority, the ones who make this country run, and we’re finally acting like it.

I’ve been inspired by voices like Bernie Sanders and AOC, too. They’re out there, pulling 34,000 to rallies—bigger than any campaign stop last election. People are hungry for something else, something that doesn’t worship billionaires. I think about cooperatives—worker-run businesses where we decide what to make, how to make it, and where the profits go. I heard about a place in Spain, a whole city of co-ops. Factories there buzz every two hours so workers switch tasks—keeps it humane. During a recession, they voted: cut hours, not jobs. Everyone took a hit, but no one got left behind. That’s power—real power, not the kind that comes from stepping on necks.

I’ve been to places where the air feels different because workers call the shots. Leaders are elected, capped at six to eight times the average wage. Imagine that here—no CEO making 300 times what I do, no sociopaths at the helm. We could build that. Socialism, co-ops, whatever you call it—it’s about us, the working class, taking back what’s ours.

So where does that leave us? I’m hopeful, but I’m not naive. The billionaires won’t go quietly—they’ve got the money, the laws, the megaphones. But we’ve got the numbers, the grit, the sheer will to say enough. I keep asking myself: Can we really turn this ship around? Will we keep marching, striking, voting until the system bends to us, not them? Or are we stuck watching the sociopaths run the show, counting their billions while we scrape by? What do you think—how far are we willing to push?