Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…The Beginning Of Daniel’s Many PFA Violations & The Fight For Truth)

I was upstairs in my bathroom washing my hair when the phone rang. My dog, Sabbath, curled on the bathroom rug, at my feet. She was a Belgian Malinois, a beautiful dog that I had raised from about three months old. She was my dog, faithful to me, always trotting after my feet, guarding the homestead, herding the cats playfully, and taking nuts from Hendrix, my cockatoo. As dogs go, she will always rank up there in the top. I miss her greatly.

Daniel was calling, one day after the judge had evicted him from the home. He was telling me he was about to break the front door down to get inside. I told him he wasn’t allowed anywhere near 300 feet of my home, my business, or me. With my hair dripping wet, phone in hand, and ready to hit 911, I heard the wood frame around the front door cracking under pressure from some sort of tool downstairs.

I ran downstairs quickly, Sabbath following. Any cat in existence had long vanished. The front door was standing on its hinges ajar, and there was Daniel on the front porch, about to enter my home. I had just called 911. So much for a Protection From Abuse Order.

“You aren’t allowed in the home, Daniel.” I quietly said. I knew the police were on their way, and there was no point in screaming. He told me he had returned to acquire some of his things. “There was no reason to take the door off its hinges and ruin it, Daniel.”, I said. “Get back out on the porch,” I said, as I saw he was beginning to cross the threshold of the front door. He did back up as I stepped forward.

He looked me in the eye and told me he was going in and taking what he wanted. Just like that. Screw the PFA. Screw what the judge had explained to him yesterday. Forget the idea that he could go to jail for six months for breaking the terms of the PFA. I looked beyond the porch and saw who else was with him. His mother. Sandra Shook Smith stood there on the ground also with a wicked smile and a gleam in her eyes and said nothing but this: “Is she not letting you in Dear? Then let’s call the police. She has to let you in. You are entitled to whatever you want. I’ll call them now for you, Daniel.”

He started to cross the threshold again, and I grabbed his elbow, two fingers on either side. I should mention that Daniel had surgery on his elbow a few years back because he had fallen from a roof when he was a roofer years back. Doctors couldn’t repair the elbow properly, and at times, he would be in much pain. I knew the vulnerable points and I squeezed just ever so delicately. He winced and I said simply, “Don’t go any further.” He again stepped back and decided to sit on the opposite side of the porch.

I then sat on the other end with Sabby. A patrol car arrived within minutes. The officer quickly ran up on the porch and began yelling at Daniel. “Do you live here? Do you belong here? As I understand it, there is a PFA against you Mr. Smith. What makes you think you can blatantly walk onto this woman’s porch?”  Daniel wouldn’t answer the officer. I don’t know why he wouldn’t answer. His mother was still on the ground in front of the house.

The officer walked up to me and quietly asked me if I had changed the locks. I told him I hadn’t yet, I had just received the PFA less than 8 hours ago, and was in the process that day of having someone change the locks and secure my home. I also told him it didn’t matter for the front door now, because of what he had now broken, and how the door stood half off its hinges. The officer took one look, and told Daniel he was going in to be arrested.

Daniel then yelled that he wanted “his dog”. The officer walked over to me and asked me again, quietly, who was the true owner of the dog. I explained to him that I had purchased the dog from Daniel, before I knew him, back in 1999, and had paperwork to verify my purchase. Sabbath belonged to me. That satisfied the officer. The officer then took Daniel off the porch and put him in his car telling him he could tell the judge why he felt it necessary to come to my home and damage the door. The officer told him to explain to the judge why he needed to break the PFA one day after it was issued.

I now had a front door to be repaired, locks to be recast, and a house to be secured. I knew I had a number of chores to do before the day was over. Never did I think the next question would be asked of me by this officer.

Sandra had pulled the officer aside after her son was being arrested for breaking the PFA. In the last post, I explained that Sandra was not adamant in giving Daniel his medicines for his diagnoses. She herself had visited psychiatrists and had been given psychiatric medicines that she wouldn’t take because she felt they weren’t necessary. She already knew her son was a drug addict and was back hitting the streets for his drugs of choice, and she was about to cover any story for him that she could dream possible.

When I saw her talking with this officer, I figured he was explaining what would happen to Daniel, where he would go, and what the terms of the PFA were. I was wrong. Sandra was now concocting another lie about me. Suddenly, the officer walks back to me, and asks me this question, “When was the last time you visited Sandra Shook Smith in the hospital?”

What an odd question. What does this have to do with what just happened at my home? Nothing, that I can put together. “That’s an easy question,” I told the officer. “October 31st, 2004. We had a gathering at this home. She feigned a heart attack again. Jonathan, the paramedic, was here, and he administered first aid to her. She had been brought to St. Luke’s in Bethlehem. The doctors at St. Luke’s wanted to admit her to the psychiatric unit there, realized she hadn’t had any medical problems and thought she would be a good candidate for their mental health unit. But she discharged herself at 4 a.m. AMA (against medical advice), called us at 4 a.m. to tell us, and took a cab home. She hasn’t been in the hospital since.”

He looked at me for only a moment. “She’s been in the hospital since then. Apparently, some January. And she’s saying that you escorted her to the hospital, and while there, stole her credit cards and used them. She wants me to bring you in for credit card theft.” Then he looked me directly in the eye, frowned a bit, and a very small laugh escaped his lips. My face must have surprised him. The myriad of expressions also must have told him that I had no idea what he was talking about and this woman was fabricating a story on the spot because her son was now in trouble. He knew it but had to prove it.

“What do I do now?” I asked. “Our detectives will call you to get to the bottom of this.” he said. “In the meantime, you’ll be going to court for the PFA violation.” “You realize what she’s trying to do,” I said. “She’s trying to deflect the situation. This woman is just as ill as her son. I never knew she was hospitalized some January.”  His hands were tied as he had two situations to handle. He didn’t know either of us, and he had been called to a home to handle a PFA, and then given information about a credit card theft. By the law and his badge, he needed to report and investigate both. I understood.

How the officers handled the situation and how Bethlehem came to handle me next was suspect at best, pathetic and showed a lack of understanding of truly psychiatrically ill people. Now a domestic abuse victim was becoming an accused suspect in a bogus credit card theft.  And the police department was allowing this bogus story of theft to override the fact that I was a victim of two very ill people.

What the Smiths’ did next in the continuing web of lies against me took me months to clear. But the truth always stands clear and cannot be broken. No matter how shrouded with darkness and deceit truth still shines like a beacon of light at the end of a tunnel. Through my ordeal of perpetuated lies by them, I always looked for that pharos to show me hope and security. Try as they might to charge me, they couldn’t. Try as they might to harass me, they did their best job.

Peace.

Sorceress

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…How To Keep A Psychopath Down…)

Apparently putting him in a dream-like state was the idea of a good psychiatrist. The doctors that administered the medications to Daniel while I was with  him would give him strong medicinal cocktails that made Daniel sleep a good 18 hours a day, nod in and out for the rest of the 6 hours and dribble from the corners of his mouth while he was seemingly awake. I now believe the idea behind this was to keep a psychopath down. It was a good idea and they knew it.

Why was it a good idea? Because these doctors knew what Daniel was about. They had heard his stories. They had heard my stories. They knew I was trapped in a situation that I was unable to escape  from at that time. As unbelievable as it may sound, these doctors knew I was trapped in a home because I was temporarily disabled and feverishly watched over by a woman who was just as seriously ill as her son. Even if I had left the home to go to a shelter, I would not have been accepted because of my then current medical condition. It was a no-win situation for me.

In retrospect, I see that psychiatrists and psychologists were attempting to aid me by heavily dosing Daniel. It all makes sense now. I truly believe they were protecting me. Just as some of the psychiatrists wanted to commit him to Allentown State Hospital, others aided me in obtaining PFA’s (Protection From Abuse Order’s), others kept him locked in the psychiatric units of the local hospitals when he would commit suicide for as long as they could hope to be able to obtain orders to further commit him for longer durations.

I would imagine having Daniel Floyd Smith as a patient was a challenge. He probably was viewed as the patient that a doctor could write abstracts on.  A patient that a doctor could talk about at seminars. Daniel was the ideal delusional patient complete with a dysfunctional childhood and a psychiatrically ill overbearing mother that was very much an overbearing presence in his everyday life. What more could a doctor ask for? Paint the picture more with a woman who somehow became involved, now disabled, constantly being rushed to the ER for sometimes unknown reasons, later suspected poisonings,  and perhaps, just perhaps this woman was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Someone needed to be helped, and doctors were looking for answers. They knew conclusively that Daniel was a diagnosed psychopath. That was a given. He had been diagnosed by a psychiatrist when he attempted to murder me and had been arrested and placed in jail. He had a background of breaking the law since the age of 18, there were police reports of prior domestic violence in a former relationship and he had been in drug-rehabilitation centers.

When I first met Daniel, I was unaware of his background. His mother kept all of it hidden from me, as he did. Slowly, his past was revealed to me, but not in everyday conversation. I became aware of his past during the times he was arrested because of his suicide attempts and the murder attempt. He would also reveal parts of his past during conversations with psychologists and psychiatrists. Since I would always be present during sessions to keep him on track, I would learn of his past digressions and of his current thoughts.

Listening to Daniel tell the doctors his stories would make me cringe inwardly. Other times, I would be astounded at his descriptions of his childhood abuses. I never knew what would pour forth from Daniel’s mouth, but I knew it would always surprise me.

When I tell you at times I wanted to run as far as I could and never look back, that is my earnest truth. If only I could back then. I believed I had no other choice. Living in a wheelchair at first from the original accident, then graduating to a walker, eventually to Canadian crutches took a total of over 6 years.  In the beginning, I had seizures up to 15 times a day. I couldn’t verbalize, but my mind could think. I was trapped in a hell that I couldn’t talk about to anyone. I was attending physical therapy and crying through it because the pain was intense, but determined.

Daniel would take me to the physical therapy hospital and wait for me. He would then drive me home, dutifully help me out of the car with my wheelchair, and help me up the stairs to the porch and into the house. As I said earlier, I would be in tears from the pain. When I first began physical therapy, because it was too painful for my body after the accident, a tens unit was used instead for relief before any attempt at using my limbs was started.

Daniel, in his twisted thinking, asked the doctor for a tens unit to use at home. He explained to the doctor that it would be beneficial to ease my pain. One was acquired for home use. However, easing my pain wasn’t Daniel’s intention. There are other uses for tens units, I found out. They aren’t what the machines are intended to be used for but Daniel used them in a sadistic manner on my body instead. I still shudder at the sight or mention of these machines and they turn my stomach.

I know he was solicitous in helping me in front of the neighbors. Very often a neighbor would come over when they would see me getting out of the car to offer their sympathy. They would tell me how amazed they were at what I was attempting to accomplish. It had taken me months just to walk the length of my porch, that is, when I finally was able to get out of my wheelchair and use my walker. Of course, they would then turn to Daniel and sympathize with him. What they didn’t know is that he was responsible for the accident that had put me in the wheelchair that they were looking at.

But the psychiatrists did. They were the ones that wanted to get Daniel away from me. They knew how seriously ill he was and the damage he was causing to me. The problem is they couldn’t physically remove me from my home and put me somewhere else. They could temporarily remove Daniel and advise me to leave the state, but in reality, with no one to aid me, I didn’t know how to do this. I felt very helpless in the physical condition I was in.

I had a home. I had pets. My adult children were in college. I felt very alone. I was being “watched” by Sandra. All I could do was plan to physically repair myself to the best of my ability and then work on rewiring my brain to create new neural pathways. I didn’t tell anyone about my plan. I knew if I did, it wouldn’t succeed.

The only person that knew was Doc Holly. She encouraged me to continue on. It is because of her that I am here today writing this story. Walking, talking, driving, doing everything I could do before the accident. It took me over 6 years to put down the Canadian crutches and walk without any aids. It took 4 years before I was able to rewire my brain and be successful in creating new pathways. Daniel and his mother had no idea I was working feverishly behind their backs, while they were constantly aiming to destroy me.

Four years later, my day of recognition was August 26, 2006 when I went to a judge and told him my story and asked for a PFA against Daniel again, for the second time. The judge approved it, and evicted Daniel from the home immediately. Although I had the PFA, it only served to antagonize the Smiths further. Now I should have been free of them, but they were concocting more troubles than I ever believed possible for me.

Now that Daniel was out of the house and under his mother’s roof, he was no longer medicated. He was in full bloom of his illness and now using drugs. And his mother was still protecting him from the police when I would report him for violating the PFA. Now Sandra felt she had to fight back because a judge had her son evicted from the home through a domestic violence PFA and she would stop at nothing to get her way.

Although before I was a prisoner in my home and held captive by these people, and now I was free, this time I was being held captive by what her money bought through lies. Gone were the pharmaceutical cocktails that the doctors had prescribed for her son the psychopath that would keep him down and out. Sandra didn’t have the mental strength and capabilities to force Daniel to take his medicines, thus encouraging her little boy to come out and play with her once more.

And together, fueled by obsessive furies, these two now started to play an even more dangerous near-deadly game in their compulsive preoccupations with me. Forced to leave the Chelsea Avenue home, Daniel’s last words to me were “I won’t stop until you’re crying on the curb, without a roof over your head, without any food to eat, and penniless.”

Peace.

Sorceress

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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?) Part Two

Post #50 spoke of the beginning of the deaths of my pets. It took me 50 posts to pull my courage and strength together to write this series of “They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?”. The legacies of Hendrix, Berwyn, Shortcake, Sabbath, the dead kittens, the decapitated tabby, Thor and all the others always stay in the back of my mind. The cruelty of Daniel and his mother is unspeakable. My tears are sometimes uncontrollable. I have been damaged by these people, yes. But I have also been strengthened by their ruthlessness and callousness.

Daniel’s cousin raised Samoyed puppies. Years ago, I had a Sammy that was a teddy bear with my own children. Yehnsei was a great dog with the kids when they were just toddlers. They would use her as a pillow when they would watch Sesame Street. She was such a gentle dog. When his mother told me about his cousin and her dogs and suggested we acquire a puppy from her, I agreed to take a ride down to her farm.

We drove down and took a look at her dogs. She had two available. The one that I chose was about six months old and seemed well-trained. We brought him home, and he behaved well with my other dog, Sabbath. I had told his cousin we had cats also, and she said that wouldn’t be a problem. Her dogs had been adjusted to cats, also. The new dog seemed to be happy when we brought him in, and he played happily with the cats in our household, also.

I was in another room when I heard a cat screeching. I ran into the second bedroom and found the new Samoyed cornering Shortcake, one of my cats. I thought this would be typical, a new dog discovering a new cat type of thing. Problem was, it seemed he had injured my cat and I had to rush my cat to my veterinarian.

My vet took my cat immediately, x-rayed him, administered tests, etc., and pronounced him ok. He said Shortcake had been through an upset, would need to be watched overnight, could come home but would be fine. I was nervous and upset now about this dog and wanted to return him, but my main concern was about my cat.

I stayed up all night nursing my cat. He seemed to be fatigued, more frightened than anything and I stayed next to him. At about 6 a.m., I decided to take a shower. Shortcake was now sleeping peacefully and doing better, so I felt I could leave him for a few minutes while I refreshed myself. I regret that decision to this day.

After my shower, I opened the bathroom door to find Daniel standing directly outside of the bathroom door. Standing within inches of the door, waiting for me to open it. Quizzically I looked at him, asking what’s wrong. He blurted out, “Shortcakes dead!” Not again, my whole demeanor just slumped. I ran to my bedroom, pushing him aside. There was my Shortcake, lying in his bed, dead. Another dead animal in my home. I had left my cat alone with this man, never thinking, never realizing that he would kill my pet behind my back. Never did I think these thoughts. Never. But it happened. And I’m sorry that I left my animal behind while I took my shower. I never knew that I was leaving my pet in the hands of a murderer. That thought haunts me and brings tears over and over again. The pain that I feel never seems to lessen itself.

Again, a tearful burial was done in the backyard. Tearful on my part, and false tears on Daniel’s part. I don’t know what went through his mind. I don’t even want to imagine. I won’t give credence to any thought that might have gone through his sick, twisted mind. All I know is that my cat was resting finally, I had gone to take a shower, and he used that opportunity to kill yet another of my pets.

Daniel then called his mother, Sandra to tell her the news. Sandra raced to our home. I’m not sure exactly what Daniel told her on the phone, because she was under the impression that the dog had killed my cat. I tried to explain to her that my vet had told me Shortcake was ok, and wasn’t hurt, that he shouldn’t have died. But Daniel gave her the impression that this dog had done enough damage to the cat that something else had gone terribly wrong and  instead, the cat did die.

Sandra then packed the dog in her van and drove him back to the cousin’s farm. She returned the dog, calling it a “killer”. Little did she know it was her son that was the real killer of the animal that had died. Somehow Daniel had convinced her that the dog was responsible. He had used the opportunity at hand to kill. He had psychopathic urges, saw an opportunity to use them and did. I look at all of this now, and writing about it makes me want to hug my animals and protect them with all my might.

Did I realize Daniel had killed Shortcake? Did I see it in his eyes when I opened the bathroom door? I saw some type of gleam there, yes. I mistook the black gleam in his eyes not for the despair of the death of my cat, but it was really for the excitement and the thrill it must have given him to take the last breaths from my cat.

Daniel was out of breath as he told me Shortcake was dead. His eyes were startling black. He was shaking. He was excited. He was moving back and forth uncontrollably. At the time, I interpreted these signs differently.

How do I know these things now? I can’t forget that look on his face then. I’ve seen blackness where his iris is supposed be. I won’t forget the cajoling way he used on the camcorder calling to my cat that he decapitated. His agitated affectness when Berwyn “died”. I’ve heard his low chuckle when he’s either done something or thought something that is morally or socially unacceptable.  I’ve lived with a diagnosed psychopath. I’ve seen their mannerisms. My bones have been chilled by their ways. Now I know.

The American Psychiatric Association‘s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders incorporated various concepts of psychopathy/sociopathy/antisocial personality in early versions but, starting with the DSM-III in 1980, used instead the term Antisocial Personality Disorder and focused on earlier behavior instead of using personality judgements. The World Health Organization‘s ICD incorporates a similar diagnosis of Dissocial Personality Disorder. Both the DSM and the ICD state that psychopathy (or sociopathy) are synonyms of their diagnosis. For more information please go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antisocial_personality_disorder.

Education about Antisocial personality disorder helps to understand the complexities involved in their personal judgements as described in my posts about Daniel Floyd Smith. I am not making excuses for him. I never will. I’ve said before he is a sick man with a twisted mind that has slipped through the cracks of our judicial systems. I don’t believe he can be rehabilitated. I don’t believe that electro-convulsive therapy worked for him. Nor do I believe that medication helped him, other than putting him in a dream-like state where he was asleep 18 hours of the day.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?) Part One

I’ve been talking about my pets in my posts. About how Daniel killed some of them. About how Daniel left me dead kittens in my freezer to find when I was living alone in the house we had once shared. How he decapitated my tabby cat. He and his mother Sandra knew pets and animals were my vulnerability and how animals were my love.

I’ve wanted to talk about a statistic that I read about that keeps people in situations that they might normally walk away from if they didn’t have pets. Why women stay in these horrific relationships for unknown reasons that others can’t understand. They don’t want to leave behind innocent creatures that they know will die. Helpless animals that don’t deserve to be abused and killed at the hands of the psychopaths that these women are living with.

Before I do, I’ll relate my own stories about what happened while I was living with Daniel Floyd Smith. While I was in my situation, in the beginning, I didn’t realize that it had been Daniel that had murdered two of my parrots and two of my cats. I never would have imagined that he would leave me dead kittens in my freezer. Never would I have thought that he and his mother would donate large sums of money to the local humane shelter and then anonymously call me in as an animal abuser.

The parrots had died under suspicious circumstances and my son who was fifteen then happened to be in my home at the time. The parrots were kept in their cages, along with their play cages in the family room. It was a brightly lit room, with two walls of glass windows full of streaming light. An ideal room for birds. I had three parrots at the time, an african Congo, a mini-macaw, and a white cockatoo. The african Congo and the cockatoo I had raised from babies and were hand-fed by me and purchased long before I knew Daniel, while the mini-macaw I had adopted well before I met Daniel also.

My parrots were people-socialized, talked and interacted with my other pets in my household. Hendrix, my beloved cockatoo, even “fed” his nuts to my dog, Sabbath. Hendrix was quite the squawker, quite the jinxter and had seven locks on his cage for when I wasn’t in the home. Once, when I had gone out, I had come home to find him leading the pack of other pets around the house in a line, in a “Pied Piper fashion”. He had opened his cage again, and the other pets were following him around the house. He was quite the boss of the animals in the house and very loving. I adored him, but for his safety, had to secure him with seven locks to make sure he couldn’t get out of his cage and create havoc when I wasn’t home again.

All of my birds were fed a mix of hand-picked parrot food, nuts in season and fresh fruits and vegetables. They enjoyed baths in my sinks and sunning outside when the weather was warm. They snuggled with me, and with other friends that would visit. They were well socialized little creatures.

On this particular day, my son came running upstairs to me and very quietly said, “Congo and Buddy are dead in their cages.” I asked him where Daniel was and if he had told him. He said Daniel was out on the back deck, which was just outside of the family room’s door, and no, he hadn’t told him. I ran downstairs, and there were two of my parrots lying on the bottom of their cages. And there was Daniel sitting right outside of the family room, at the picnic table, looking in.

I reached into each cage to check their vitals and look for signs of anything. My birds were dead. I couldn’t tell how they died. Their necks weren’t twisted or out-of-place. They were just lying there. This seemed so surreal. Earlier in the day, when I had watered them, they were fine. Nothing was amiss and they were happy as they usually would be. Hendrix appeared to be fine. Hendrix, by the way, as a white sulfur-crested cockatoo was a larger parrot than Buddy and Congo with a wing span of probably four feet. Congo and Buddy, by comparison, were much smaller parrots, and easier to handle.

Daniel finally came into the family room. He acted with concern, at least I thought, at the time. He said he had gone in and out of the house through the family room and hadn’t noticed anything wrong. My son and I couldn’t understand how this had happened. Suddenly, two out of my three healthy parrots were dead.  As I said earlier, never did I think Daniel had done anything to hurt them. Now I know better. My son and I have discussed this incident now and we both agree that my parrots died at Daniel’s hands. Parrots need constant care, constant nurture, and a healthy home. They had the best care and environment. I hand-picked their food. I fed them a special diet of vegetables, fruits and special parrot food, along with the types of nuts and seed that each could crack with their beaks. They were sheltered from drafts. Their cages were cleaned regularly. I spent quality time talking with,  holding, and caressing each one daily. They had water sprays in my sinks. But I didn’t keep them safe from Daniel. How was I to know? The bastard feigned sadness and sympathy and stood with me as I buried my birds in special boxes. I cried as I wrapped their bodies carefully and placed them in special boxes. Now I know he was feeling nothing.

The next death to happen was Berwyn, an orange tabby cat that was an ornery fellow. Berwyn had a special illness that would shorten his life span by a few years, but he still had many years left. I had adopted him a few years earlier. He was one of those special cats that had a personality that you remember. Berwyn had pressure on his brain, similar to hydrocephalus, and he would push his head into your chest because it felt good to him. That was ok to me, because whatever made him feel better while he was alive, as long as he wasn’t in any pain, was alright. The vet said he could live for years, and he wasn’t in any pain, but he would push his head against you.

In my living room, somehow, Berwyn had climbed into the ceiling. The home was built in 1846, and the ceiling was 11 feet high. Ber had knocked one of the ceiling tiles loose, and these were the old-fashioned ceiling tiles that were about 8 inches in size. He would walk across the wooden rafters and taunt me, as any cat does its owner. Eventually, quite a few tiles were knocked down by Berwyn, but I somehow didn’t care. I knew he was having fun and they were only tiles that could go back up any time. He was a cat that I didn’t know how much longer would be with me. I guess because I knew BerBer was walking on shortened time, I gave him lee-way in doing things I shouldn’t have let him do, like knocking those ceiling tiles down. But the gleam in his eyes, and the swish of his tail when he saw me would make me laugh. Then Berwyn would roll over and jump into my arms and start purring. I figured let him have some happiness and fun before it was his time to go.

One morning, I had awakened and gone into the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard Daniel yell from downstairs. I came around the hallway from upstairs and looked down. There at the bottom of the stairs was Daniel and all he said was, “Berwyn is dead.” At the bottom of the stairs was Berwyn, lying dead on the floor. As I said before, the vet had said Ber could live for a few years. Suddenly, another death had occurred in my home. Daniel was acting strangely.

He said he had gone downstairs and just “found” Berwyn lying there in the living room “dead”. Here was the odd scenario about Berwyn’s death. Daniel was acting erratically and wouldn’t let me look at Berwyn. He said I wouldn’t want to see him this way. I questioned him why. I’ve seen enough death in my time, and said I needed to see him. No matter what I said, Daniel would not let me see Ber. He had wrapped him up in a blanket and said he was going to take care of the burial. So the opportunity to view the body never presented itself. In the back of my mind, somehow, I knew Daniel had killed Berwyn, but I didn’t want to believe it.

I was still disabled from the accident, still a prisoner in this home.  And now, I was privy to the murders of my pets. There were still more deaths to come.

Please see the following links for more information on domestic abuse and abused animals:

1. http://saavprogram.org/media.html.

2. http://www.vachss.com/guest_dispatches/ascione_1.html.

3. http://www.americanhumane.org/interaction/support-the-bond/fact-sheets/animal-abuse-domestic-violence.html.

Peace.

Sorceress

 

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…The Triad & Exposure To The Truth)

I’m sitting in the peacefulness of my backyard with my two dogs, watching them eat their treats out of their specialty toys. I make them mixes of yogurt, peanut butter, cheese and home-made dog biscuits that I stuff into these containers. They lay in the grass quietly, lapping every last morsel from the crevices of these inventions, oblivious to the sounds of the birds and the neighbor’s cats watching them. It gives them focus, adds some healthy food to their diet and aids their gums and teeth. And what does this have to do with psychopaths and their other disillusioned compadres?

I’ve had a rough few weeks. Animals bring us a peacefulness like no other. They ask for nothing in return for the love they give us. They wait adoring at the door for us. They wag their tails, they purr in our laps, they caw and flap their wings in wild anticipation of their owners interaction. They simply love us for who we are and how we behave towards them. They are dependent upon us for their food and water because they have been domesticated by us. In return, we ask that they love us unconditionally. No hidden agendas, no lies, no secret games. Just love shared among species. We can learn much from our relationships with our pets. They need to be nurtured with love and discipline so they will become the best animals they can be. Non-aggressive, loving, loyal, non-demanding, faithful and hope they will step up to the plate to alert us if danger is ever-present.

Violent, hostile and aggressively sick behavior towards animals seen during childhood is one of the three red flags often seen by psychiatrists that point to future criminal and psychotic behavior as adults. When children act out towards their pets, when pets go missing in a household, it is a cry for help and should never be ignored by the parents. This is a behavior that a child will not grow out of and is not considered as experimenting. It is the beginning of the triad of behaviors known as the “MacDonald Triad” or the “triad of sociopathy”. Two other behaviors that are included in this threesome are fire setting and enuresis, or persistent bedwetting after the age of five. There are conflicting schools of thought as to whether hardened criminals that have committed murder and other horrific crimes do carry this triad in their own mental characteristics. For more information on the triad see:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macdonald_triad.

I can tell you that Daniel Floyd Smith succumbed to two of the three characteristics according to the stories told to me by both him and his mother, Sandra. At this point, I don’t remember them discussing his bed-wetting incidents, but then again, most men don’t ever want their mothers relating stories about how long they went on wearing diapers or wetting their beds.

When Daniel was about nine years old, he deliberately set a small brush fire in a field near his home. He then pulled a fire alarm near the field, as the story was told to me, so he “could watch the firemen and fire engines come and put out the fire”. As Sandra was relating the story to me, as usual with great relish, she told me how excited little Daniel was about the firemen, and the big engines racing down the street to put out the “little brush fire” he had started.

When it was finally put out, and it didn’t take long, little Daniel went up to one of the firemen and told him what a “grand” job they had done. Apparently, little Daniel had also told the firemen, in his own excitement, that he was the one that had started the fire. The fireman asked Daniel why he had set it. “Because I like fire engines and fires!” little Daniel told the fireman. The fireman admonished Daniel and explained to him the severity of what he had done. He told him that while they were putting out the little brush fire, there could have been a much more serious fire where people’s lives were at stake and he must never do this again.

He then brought little Daniel home to his parents. The punishment? Daniels’s mother apologized to the fireman, they laughed it off (as she told the story) and little Daniel was smacked around again. No psychiatric involvement. No counseling. No wondering what was wrong with this child. Just laughter. And she topped the story off with how he became a volunteer firefighter as an adult because of his fascination with fire. Twisted thinking raising a twisted son. Bizarre rationale. I sit here now and write these thoughts of my times with these two people and still shake my head at how the system failed in recognizing a budding psychopath. How she fooled and flirted her way through so many bizarre occurrences that should have been recorded  on police records and were not.

As an adult, he killed some of my pets. I’ve written about some of them. I’ve written about the dead kittens in the freezer. I still have the pictures he took from when he decapitated my cat. I have the video he left me on my digital camera of the same cat before he killed her when he was attempting to grab her from where she had climbed high on a shelf away from him and he was calling to her. I never look at these items. I can’t. But my mind has never forgotten them. It can’t forget the horrors. My mind cannot forget the look on my cat’s face on the top of the shelf because I know what happened next to her. He decapitated her. He’s a bastard for killing her. My thoughts go beyond hate, beyond disgust, beyond pity for him for what he has done to my animals. There are no words to describe my feelings.

I do know that as a child he didn’t have any pets, except for one dog and for some reason, that one dog was spoken about very little. I can’t say why Sandra didn’t speak much about the dog. I don’t know why she wouldn’t. I have no idea what happened to it, just that there was a puppy for a short time.

So back to what animals bring us. Peace, joy, wonder, happiness. What do they bring to the criminally and psychiatrically insane? A sense of empowerment, a sense of control and a way to bully and vent their inner rage over what is happening to them. If they are abused at home, often, they will take out their frustrations on a helpless animal. This isn’t to say all abused children behave in this way at all. There should be other factors in place, of course. And Daniel Floyd Smith had far too many factors from birth and in his environment in place to set his role in motion from the time he was born. Animals would never hold a place in his heart.

He told me of his “beloved” Akita, who had to be put down when he was an adult. Instead of bringing his dog to the vet, he and a friend took the dog out to the woods, and shot the dog between the eyes. Then he created a burial site for the animal in his backyard. Convoluted thinking? Shoot your dog in the head because you claim you can’t afford to pay to euthanize him, then create a burial site for him in your backyard? Sick, twisted, dark thoughts. These are the stories that Daniel and his mother would tell me and believe them to be rational. These are the stories that haunt my soul. Stories such as these never leave you. When I watch my own pets now, I guard them carefully. They are my precious cargo. I don’t ever want to come home again to a decapitated animal. What Daniel and his mother has done to me cannot be undone completely. Some things I will always carry, no matter how hard I try to forget.

I stopped believing in the good of humanity some time ago. I don’t believe in angels anymore. I don’t even know if I believe if there’s any good out there. The Smiths’ destroyed a lot of my heart and no matter how hard I try, the stories of them re-surface to taint my good days. Time has passed and yet some days, it seems as if it was only yesterday.

There are other pet stories that I haven’t related yet, some too painful to write yet. They’ve hardened my heart irreparably. These people knew exactly where to hit me hard and where my vulnerability lie. My question to myself now is should I ever show a vulnerability again? Do I still have any naiveté or wonder of the world left? Or have I stopped smiling at the stranger I pass on the street as a friendly gesture of good morning?

These tragedies have reached my inner soul, and try as I might when the lights go out…the Monsters come out and play. Do we suffer when our demons are better company than the people we call friends and nights we spend tearing hair out and shedding tears are more comforting than those where we suffocate in darkness and solitude?

Don’t preach to me that it gets better if you’ve never walked a foot in my shoes. Don’t tell me that when you’ve hit bottom the only place to go is up if you’ve never faced the horrors of one of these personalities attempting to murder you. When you’re a victim, the unfairness is your reality. And the unfairness is that you became damaged because of an evil person that is very ill.

I know some of  the damaged survive if their wills are strong. I only wish there was enough wisdom out in our society today to address the victims appropriately with the true compassion and understanding they need instead of society giving its fascination to the criminally insane. Let the public beware of both sides, using real words. Let’s not allow psychopaths and their victimization of others become a buzz word of this decade or far worse, something that others might call a slur on the criminally insane. They are very real people who do very real damage to others and they must be identified. The only people who can truly speak the stories about the damage they do are their victims. Let their victims be heard.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Survivors…Fodder, Challenges Or Newly Educated Fireballs?)

Survivors. Are we hypervigilant fodder for psychopaths and their disillusioned friends? Dow we stand out as our own brand of red flags for the mentally disillusioned? Or are we stronger and simply more aware than the average person chooses to be in today’s society?

We didn’t choose the paths that we are on today. Those labyrinths were chosen for us by the one that also attempted to control and destroy our lives. I deliberately use the word attempt. Why? Because in the beginning, a psychopath can only attempt to begin to control his victim before he gains control. He chooses his victim wisely, and his victim also has the ability, within reason, to choose her destiny.

But does she, really, when we weigh all the factors? Most people are not looking to not trust others when they actively meet another person. It’s natural human nature. We want to trust other people. We want to believe in the next person. We want to believe that there is good in the people that we meet. We don’t want to believe the  people we meet harbor dark thoughts about us that are preconceived and actually have nothing to do with us.

For the uninitiated into the world of psychopaths, sociopaths , anti-social personalities, Cluster-B personality disorders, and similar disorders, if you have never lived or been in close, intimate contact with one of them, you probably continue in your life never thinking about these types of people. And why should you? That’s a good thought process. It’s refreshing. It’s clean.

You probably come across them on TV or if you are a fan of authors that write fiction that deals with their types of personalities. But your thoughts always bring you to the same conclusion: never me, so why must I live a life being concerned that I might run into of one of these people? These situations only happen on TV and in books. It’s all fiction from the minds of great writers. They get paid to  create these stories. But you should never think this way.

Why? Because they aren’t the dark looking monsters that television and literature that our local bookstores give you the impression they are. And in turn, the same TV programs or books that you read also tell you that the victims of these people are now either a) suffering so horribly they can’t find employment or meaning in their lives; b) their lives have been so traumatized they look like walking zombies so of course you can pick them out from the crowd; c) they obsess on the crimes that have been committed to them regularly which in turn, makes them hypervigilant and they have lost touch with reality sans their own psychopath, sociopath,etc; d) they will never be able to have relationships again because of the horrific acts they were perpetrated upon them or e) they are lost souls to be pitied for what has happened to them. If you believe what television and fictional stories tell you, then you live in a fairy-tale world. And the above about Survivors are fairy-tales and not true at all.

When we meet someone for the first time, we believe we are meeting another human being on equal footing. It is inherent in our natural beliefs and upbringing that we bring to the table normal thoughts about ourselves and towards the other person. We naturally want to be open, somewhat free about ourselves and have the encouragement to explore a new relationship with happiness and delight. That would be considered normal, average, standard and regular behavior. Taking away those that have ulterior motives simply for sex, we begin on small paths to new friendships that might lead to stronger personal one-on-one relationships. At least that’s what we think. It’s not always what’s happening in the mind of the disillusioned person, the psychopath.

So in your daily activity of looking at new friendships, there are two undercurrents that you should be aware about that are at work. When there are two people involved, there are two mental states of mind that will be working to decipher each other. The key factor is to decide if the other is honest, trustworthy and reliable. How do we do this? How do we look at others easily while not seeming to be people who are considered untrusting and hypervigliant about relationships?

How do we not become victims again? And how do we not become targets of psychopaths who believe they can take down a Survivor again as a challenge? These are all very real questions and thoughts that occur to people who have been in traumatic relationships. These questions not only occur to Survivors but they happen in their lives.

Once a life is dramatically changed by a traumatic event, a pattern emerges that is set in place for that person. Their life changes forever. They cannot go back to the person they were before the event that changed them. But of course, this is a sequence that happens for everyday people. Naturally occurring events change and alter your life and you continue down pathways. What are the differences between these people?

When a traumatic event occurs it affects the mind and its perception of similar events. When traumatic events occur over a more lengthier time, then the human mind develops more symptoms. It sees more triggers and becomes more concentrated in its observance of its surroundings. Instead of easily enjoying simple pleasures, we begin to pick apart what life brings us and looks for similar instances to the former traumas that have befallen us. We are trying to protect ourselves. We are attempting to wrap ourselves in our own warm blankets of protection. Our minds have internal protective mechanisms for shelter against future traumatic attacks.

Should you decide to go to any type of counseling for your PTSD that was induced by a psychopath, sociopath, a borderline, a Cluster-B, etc., be exceedingly careful in whom you choose. Although health care professionals will tell you they are able to discuss PTSD about domestic abuse, that doesn’t mean they have actually dealt with these matters in their office or personally with others. always ask and use specific questions should you decide to want counseling. Interview the psychologist/psychiatrist with your questions first before they do an intake on you. Be prepared and comfortable with what you want to talk about. Be honest. Again, Survivors are still vulnerable. Even tho healthcare professionals must follow laws, they also realize your vulnerability. Be strong in your convictions about what has been done to you,what you want to discuss, and the limits of how you wish to discuss your story. A good idea is to visit your local women’s shelter for advice also.

Unfortunately, the media has given more time to criminals, psychopaths,etc., than they do the Survivors and victims. Because of the twisted fascination with the “who, what, why and how” of the criminal, the Survivor is given far less impact and time to show what happens in the time periods afterwards.

This is why it is so important to tell your success story as a Survivor to as many as you can in a positive way. I have a blog contact listed in every post for my readers if you are not comfortable to write your own story so you may contact me to tell me your story.

Our world needs to know that we are alive and bursting with energy again. That we are ready to take on the world, to create, to learn, to educate, to live. We are not wallowing in self-pity. We are not walking zombies that stand in unemployment lines. Simply because we write about our experiences does not mean we are obsessed about what has happened to us. It means we want to educate others so they, in turn, will learn and educate themselves about these types of personalities. It’s called sharing and caring. We do have relationships again, however, the key to our new relationships is how to choose the right partner. A partner that is free from games and sick, twisted, mind games. We aren’t lost souls at all, quite the contrary. We have meaning in our lives. Perhaps more meaning than ever before and without a doubt, more meaning than the average person. We have experiences to share and we have the ability and knowledge to do this.

So are we new fodder and sitting ducks for psychopaths as Survivors? No, not at all.  We now are brimming with a new-found knowledge that automatically kicks in when one them crosses our path. We see those red flags blowing right in front of their faces. His words aren’t sounding so sweet when they pour out of his mouth. They actually sound ridiculous now when you hear them .

When a person tells you “I love you…you’re the soul mate I’ve been looking for and never found…will you marry me…today?” just a week or two after you’ve met him? I hope you know the answer as to whom you’re talking to and what type of person he is. Always remember you’re worth waiting for in time. Don’t let someone tell you to hurry, instead spend your life on your time, as you feel it should be spent. Be comfortable in everything you do. If it feels right? It probably is. Time will tell you whether it is.

Only you can discern the real from the fake. Only you can obsess about your past and decide to go on. Only you can decide what to bring with you from your memories that will teach you  stronger convictions and help you educate others. Memories do intrude upon you at the most inopportune times, and you cannot stop them. That’s how our brains work. But you can take those memories and choose where to store them.

Another blogger from WordPress tells her story of success of growth and survival from these types of personality disorders here:  The Void Behind the Narcissist’s Mask.  Proof of  Survivors telling their stories so others will learn as they grow stronger each day.

Our realizations become luminous centers within us when we face the demons that once tried to thwart us, entrap us and bring us down. That’s when we become the fireballs we are now.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Bad Boys…Why We Love Them & Why We Shouldn’t…)

"Hollywood Bad Boys".

Bad Boys. You know one. You’ve seen them. Maybe you’ve lusted after one or two. Why are women so attracted to them? What is the illusion that they carry? I’ve used photos of Hollywood badboys and badgirls because they are easy to identify and associate their particular traits of manipulating and how they treat their romantic partners. Their lifestyles are well-publicized and society feeds on their behaviors. In and out of jails for the wrongs they have commited, it doesn’t seem to matter. Hollywood still pays for them to work and society pays to watch them perform. And why?

Why are they considered “eye candy”, when in reality, their colors and flavors are as sour as rotten apples and they aren’t sweet at all. They are an illusion. Good-looking, sexy, well-dressed, slick-talkers, manipulative, promiscuous, in and out of  jail…they resemble psychopaths, don’t they? Perhaps. Maybe some of the bad boys harbor some of the attributes of the psychopathic personality.

"Hollywood Bad Boys We Love".

Some women will tell you that their “bad boys” are really “teddy bears” if you knew them. They tell you that underneath their “big bad” exterior is a softie.  But behind closed doors is always another story.

I can tell you this. Every woman who has uttered that statement to me has also cried about his behavior to her and how he has treated her behind her back unfairly. How he  a) has affairs; b) is married or is linked exclusively with another woman also; c) uses her for sex exclusively as in a “friends with benefits” type relationship but not necessarily calling the relationship in those terms; d) uses her for her money; e) uses her for some purpose,  for example-he currently doesn’t have a license but needs transportation; f) is playing her in some way that she just can’t figure out exactly because he doesn’t give her all the pieces of his life so she can know him well enough.

The list that bad boys use their victims for is endless. They have their own personal agendas. That’s one of the reasons they have been given the moniker “bad boys”.

So why the strong attraction to these losers? Are these women short on egos themselves? Do they need someone who attracts attention, albeit negative attention to give them their own ego boosts?

Have these women been so hurt in their pasts that they deliberately choose these types of men to use for themselves? Just as these men have the cavalier attitude of “love them and leave them”, many women also use this attitude as a shield to protect their emotions from being hurt anymore. It’s a defense mechanism.

Here’s the catch in many of these relationships. In turn, they will equally destroy this type of relationship while destroying their own sanity. While seeking these types of men to use, they are only quick patches to what they need to fix in their own lives. Quick and easy fixes instead of focusing on long-term goals of self-improvement and ego boosting work that would skillfully aid them in attaining healthy relationships.

Working on yourself is a difficult process. It involves self-introspection to find both your own qualities and your own faults. Addressing both, finding solutions to your faults and building on your attributes is not an easy quick process. The time factor is long, but well worth it. The person that evolves after the time spent is a person that is more confident, independent and ready to tackle the world with new eyes on a daily basis. Not an easy goal, but one that is definitely attainable.

Can these women who stay in these abusive relationship cycles see the damages? Do they want to see the damages? Can they see the damages?

These are questions asked by everyday and professional people who look at these types of relationships whether they are counselors,  neighbors, friends, involved with the situation or not. So often, others look at these women and give up on them with the attitude that the situation is hopeless and the woman is only getting what “she deserved”. The situation these women find themselves in is far more complex and deserves much more insight than a mere shake of the head and a flippant response than this.

These types of relationships are always in a downward spiraling motion. For as many years as it took the person to get involved with that type of negative individual, it will take  many years of inward reflection to remove themselves from that type of negative wanting.

"Hollywood Bad Girls".

Why do people want that elusive “bad boy/girl”? Yes, there are women that are bad girls too. Not as many as the bad boys, and you don’t see them as often, but they are out there. The interesting phenomena is that the women that are considered bad girls are very often looked at with other monikers such as whores, sleazy women, trash, etc. Gender inequality is prevalent when describing these types of personalities. Not fair in today’s world, but that would be another post I could write.

"Hollywood Bad Girls Again".

The reasons are many, but here are just a few:

1. They are different. They represent something that is out of the ordinary to you. They offer something that is in a word-naughty, bad, sexy…something against what you have brought up to believe you should be with. They go against your inner moral beliefs and satisfy the part of you that wants to do an action that might be considered wrong. You yourself aren’t doing anything wrong, but by associating with that person you are assuming the guilt.Why do people want that elusive bad boy/girl?

2. They aren’t the settling down type. If you have this type of person on your arm, what does it say about you? That you’ve cornered them? That you have captured them? Think twice about this. Look long into your future with them and look just as deep into their past relationships. There is a pattern with this type of personality and you are not the one that is going to break it, no matter what they tell you.

3. They are different. You know what a good boy is like. A good boy is predictable. A bad boy isn’t. A bad boy is exciting because you never know what might happen and what he might do. The problem here? You also don’t know what he might do with your emotions, your feelings, and your relationship. You just might become old to him as quickly as you were new to him because that’s what he’s about. Bring in the new and get rid of the old quickly.

4. You can’t figure him out. He’s a conundrum. He’s frustrating but you believe he’s all worth that to you. And a relationship that is frustrating, makes you wonder whether he’s faithful to you and makes you feel as if you’re not his only one is really what you’re looking for? Really?

5. You are rebelling and want a partner that is against all that you have always been attracted to and told you should be involved with. You’ve led a cookie-cutter life, a perfect life, you need excitement and you look to the bad boy to fill this void in your life. What he will bring to you is excitement and heartbreak, frustration and pain, and perhaps more. The choice is always yours.

6. He’s a challenge. Good boys want the picket fence in their lives. Bad boys don’t want to be tied down. They want the motorcycles, fast cars and faster lives. Remember this next time you are considering one. The key word is stability. Do you want stability in your life or do you want a roller-coaster?

7. You honestly believe you can reform this bad boy to stay with you forever. He has told you that you are his soul-mate, his one and only, etc. His pathological lies have begun to hook you into his web of deceit so he can use you for his wants and needs. When he’s finished, you’re gone. Not because you want to be gone, because he’s finished with you. It’s called the Red Flags to look for. See:  http://sorceressofthedark.wordpress.com/2011/07/14/survivor-of-a-psychopathwith-borderline-tendencies-red-flags-to-look-for/.

You always have choices in your life. Being with anyone is a new gateway to a new experience, a new vista. Life is a Journey to be experienced and enjoyed even if you make mistakes. It’s when we learn from our mistakes that we go forward.

You also have choices to look inward and find yourself. Because your self  is a special being and should be taken care of with kid gloves. Find ways to see what your qualities are, where your special talents lie and use them. Develop hobbies. Find out what’s fun in your life for you and not anyone else.

Becoming #1 is an important step to boosting your ego. It may sound too simple but put stickies up telling yourself how wonderful you are. Because you are. Smile at yourself in the mirror. Tell yourself everyday you are worth it. Again, because you are.

Focus on how important you are and soon you will find others will see you in a new light. Relationships will open where you become more confident, more self-assured and more in control. It does happen when you begin to work on yourself. But you have to make the first step in choosing yourself first. You can do it. Finding yourself takes time but when you do you’ll find the person inside of yourself pretty amazing.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…What Are Their Agendas?)

It’s so very easy to sit here and tell my readers how simple it is to spot the psychopath at a distance now. How thin and shallow their veneer is I can see right through them.

If only we were all born with the gift to do this immediately on sight. No one is. If they tell you they are, they are lying, or better yet, they are a psychopathic personality trying to get in your better graces.

I still commiserate with my Survivor Sisters, the hardy bunch they are. (Insert wry smile and crinkling eyes here…) I won’t preach at you and tell you I never fell from grace myself. I did. I fell for one.

In the last post I told you in the first meeting with Daniel’s mother, I didn’t see her oddities. By the next morning, I saw her creepiness and stalking a mile away. (no pun intended). Her behavior was highly unusual the next day and I think anyone would have found it to be as such.

Think about this situation. You have an early breakfast with your new boyfriend, you drop him off at his workplace, where you spend a few minutes in your car canoodling, his friends wave at his new girlfriend and blow a few whistles at him, and you’re both smiling. You think to yourself, this is good. You’re in the beginning stages of a relationship, the sky is blue, and both of you are smiling.

Until…until you see this van parked half a block away in the parking lot and it drives up to you. And its Daniel’s mother behind the wheel. She lowers the window and says, “Get in. Let’s chat for a moment.” (Insert eerie music here.) She’s dressed up as if to go to a luncheon, makeup and hair done at 5:30 a.m. and I’m still in my jeans, tee shirt and boots. My store doesn’t open until 1 p.m. so I get to go home for some more zzz’s.

What could this woman want to talk about? And why is she here? Why was she watching her son and I from across the parking lot like a stalker would? I know the answer now, but back then, I never would have imagined the scenerio that was to unfold. Back then, I wouldn’t say I was naive to disorganized personalities, but I wouldn’t have suspected her to be as bizarre as she turned out to be.

What I’ve learned from Sandra is that the old saying “you can’t judge a book by its cover” works both ways. There are sheep in wolves clothing, but there are also wolves in sheeps clothing, too.

A quick aside about wolves in sheep clothing and what I mean by that. When my daughter was younger, I ran a girl scout troop from Brownie level to Junior level. The girls were always collecting aluminum cans and we would bring the collection of cans down to the recyclying center once a month to collect the money and then donate it monthly to a special cause.

One time at the collection, there was a man that wasn’t dressed very neatly, his clothes were very soiled from his line of work, ill-fitting and he was rather large. He frightened the girls by his looks. I told the girls not to judge him, he was the caretaker of the facility. After he told the girls what a wonderful job they were doing recycling, he said his daughter was a baker and she would love to help out our troop. To make a long story short, his daughter went on to bake these amazing cakes whenever our service unit for girl scouts in our area needed them as her way of volunteering  just because she wanted to and just because her dad had met my girls and he was so taken aback at their sincerity. That’s a sheep in wolves clothing.

Sandra dressed the part of a woman going to an annual flower show at the time of the morning. She must have been up since 3 a.m. getting ready for this meeting.

Spotting them, I believe, is the easier part once you have lived through the experience of one of these personalities. Spotting the rest of the emotions is tough, and it does get easier, but not by a long shot does this job-spotting go away quickly, I won’t lie. It can make you feel paranoid at times and it shouldn’t. You are always looking out for your own human decency rights.

Their emotions are not so so easy to discern from ours. Ours are real and full of meanings, emotions, inflections in our speech and feelings. We feel. Simply put, psychopaths and their Cluster-B personality disorders don’t.

What they feel are emotions that we can only imagine in the dark receesses of our minds. We see these emotions in the darkness of their eyes. In the hollowness of their faces. In the slight curvatures of their smiles when they think they have won someone as their prize. In the absurdities of their laughs when they cackle at the inappropriate. In the cold fingertips of their hands. Or in the delusional stories they create to confuse their victims. I witnessed all of these in Daniel and his mother as time progressed.

From Sandra imagining my daughter and I speaking in tongue to one another as a secret language to ourselves to deliberately exclude her to the dark, hollow, vacant pit of Daniel’s eyes the night he held a butcher knife to my neck and the day he deliberately ran a red light causing another vehicle to slam into the passenger’s side of my car where I was sitting enabling the accident that would place me in a wheelchair for the next two years and cause me to become non-verbal.

That morning I saw a determined look in Sandra’s eyes as she watched me from the seat of her van. She had questions for me. Questions she hadn’t wanted asked in front of her son the day before. I opened the door but hesitated getting into her van. “Why are you here”? I asked her.

There was a gleam in her eyes that morning I would like to call evil, but I know now was simply a part of her demeanor when she was orchestrating her plans. Her question to me that morning that she could not ask in front of her son?

“Are you able to bear children?” She asked me point blank. This was her agenda that morning.I explained to her, in a placating tone, that I was the mother of three children already. I was a proud parent of two sons and a daughter. Two were attending college and I was home-schooling the third.

But would I be interested in having Daniel’s children was her question,dismissing the facts that I had just explained to her. Her histrionic mind cared less of of what I had accomplished. Her agenda was focused solely on her needs and wants.

Furthest idea from either of our minds, I told her, exactly why is this your concern and what are you doing here anyway? Now my anger was starting to rise at the the thought of this woman’s interference in my life.

As Sandra saw my anger begin to show, she realized she needed to placate me quickly, since I apparently was an “approved choice” now for her son in her eyes. “Oh Goody”, she actually said as she clapped her hands together. “Three grandchildren!”

I needed to vacate the van as soon as possible. My children had a grandmother they lved dearly. This woman did not show any of the endearing qualities that a typical, loving grandmother would show.

Sandra was beginning to frighten me at that very point in time. Not frighten in any usual sense of the word, but frighten as in she’s not based in reality frighten. I did excuse myself from her, left the van, and walked back to my car.

I decided to stop for breakfast on my home in the event she was following me. I didn’t want this woman to know where I lived.

My preliminary thoughts were that she was a lonely woman, without any direct descendant grandchildchildren to call her own. Odd in her behaviors, yes, but frankly, I was unconcerned at that point. She meant nothing more to me than Daniel’smother. Besides that, Danel and I were not in any type of relationship yet. Apparently, she felt differently.

People with disorganized personalities have agendas. People with normal personalities have agendas. The difference is that there are issues that you can’t see with psychiatrically ill people. You cannot see pschotic breaks in their personalities about to happen. You cannot hear their demons. Only they can. There are subtle signs in their behaviors that reflect their shortcomings in normal decency.

What I can say now is when the hair on the back of your neck stands up, there is a reason. Pay attention to it. Go with your gut feelings, but not your emotions.  Their little green men keep chasing them and haunt them. That’s something Daniel always told me.

Peace.

Sorceress

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Meeting Sandra)

This wasn’t the first time Sandra Shook smith was full of grandiose stories. Her son, Daniel, was quite hesitant to have me meet her in the beginning ouf our relationship. He would say he needed to stop at his parents’ home, but leave me in the car. I told him that was ridiculous, and that I was interested in meeting this woman he called Mother. I now rue that day.

He told me the meeting needed to be arranged, and that his mother was tough. No tougher than I could be, I thought at the time. I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into. Daniel had no idea what his psychiatric problems were and neither did his mother. Those with severe psychiatric problems often are unaware of their behaviors and their impact on others.

Daniel’s father had an idea his son was different in ways he couldn’t understand but was attempting to rationalize in a simple way when Daniel was young. Lester knew Daniel had difficulty in elementary school and would visit his teachers to try to figure ways to help his son, he had told me. Before dsylexia was fully explained and explored in the school systems, many teachers had no idea how to cope with students struggling with this problem.

Lester once told me he knew his son couldn’t read. He felt if he had Daniel re-write stories he might be able to learn to read better. At the time, this seemed a gentler approach than how Sandra  felt her approach to teaching Daniel to read would work. She would sit at the kitchen table with him attempting to teach him at an early age when he couldn’t read words back to her, if he couldn’t perform to her standards she would grab his head and slam it against the kitchen wall, she told me. She said “knocking some sense into him might get him to read, but it never did”. I can say both ways never taught the man to read properly.

Unchecked dysfunctional patterns in households often went unnoticed back then circa 1960′s. If it was noticed, not many decent programs were in place that could help children either. Daniel was in a local Boy’s Club in his city as a child and ironically, one of the men that volunteered at the Boy’s Club later went on to see Daniel as a defendant in a judicial position in the court system. Again, falling through the cracks seemed to be Daniel’s future from a very early start in life.

His parents lived in a late 1950′s cape cod style home with 3 small bedrooms. Furnished on a blue collar workingman’s salary, it was clean and well-kept. The day that Daniel had his mother and I meet for the first time he wanted to make sure that what I would be wearing, in his eyes, what his mother called  ”appropriate clothing”.

For anyone that knows me, I dress the way I want, anywhere I want, in the style I want. Pretty much since high school, I have adopted my own style, not necessarily adhering to trends, but rather, adhering to my own eclectic taste. Out of an admiration for the classics, I had grown to appreciate vintage clothing. My aunts had kept most of their clothing in pristine condition in the attic of the home I grew up in and I would scour the racks for pieces to wear from the 1930′s, 40′s and 50′s throughout high school and college. My attic was my own personal thrift shop, so to speak, full of well-made, costly clothing and accessories that hung wrapped in garment bags on racks. This had set my personal style from early on.

When Daniel and I first met, I owned a store that amongst other items, sold vintage clothing that dated from into the 1800′s and some new clothing that I would acquire from trade shows at Jacob Javits from New York City every few weeks. I adored fashion and the eccentricity that went with it since I was a teen-ager. Having him tell me to dress in a certain way or to modify my style to meet his mother seemed controlling to me and I was not going to abide to his whims. Apparently, his mother still frightened him in his decisions, I thought. An apparent Momma’s boy, perhaps?

The relationship was still in its beginning stages, and I had no idea what to expect. I hadn’t met Daniel on the internet, I had met him in person. Our relationship and how it was to evolve was based on actual person-to-person interaction, instead of texting and internet messaging as is commonplace today.

Interesting personalities, these psychopaths are. As we try to envision their childhood, and pick it apart, we look for pieces that might fit a puzzle that tells us something went horribly wrong in their environment. We want answers. The scientific mind knows the possibilities that their brain lobes can be damaged.

There have been suggestions that damage to the frontal lobes and behavior in psychopathic individuals is remarkably consistent. See:  http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/authored_newsitem.cws_home/companynews05_01511.   A more concise, detailed with images and opinions conversation on psychopathy and frontal lobe damage can be found here:  http://www.cerebromente.org.br/n07/doencas/disease_i.htm.

Then there are the environmental factors that psychiatrists and others look into when picking apart the background of these disorganized people. What went wrong in their upbringing? What horrible parent-child interactions went on that might have encouraged this child to grow dark thoughts into even darker, twisted immoral , illegal ideas?

After living with Daniel, after hearing his stories, his own personal nightmares and after listening to Sandra’s immoral interpretations of life, I can tell you that Daniel’s future as an adult was never on solid ground, regardless of whether his brain was damaged or not. His environmental background was not solid, I would soon find out through both first-hand stories of his parents and witnessing the visual impact of the behavior of this mother-son relationship over the years that were to follow.

The stories that he told me of his childhood were typically abusive, typically dysfunctional and of a child that seemed to be encouraged by one parent (Lester) and always thwarted by his other parent (Sandra). As time progresses through chapters of “Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…)”, the nuances and delusions of Daniel’s mind will be discussed in further intricate details and in much deeper thought.

Daniel’s mind seemed always dark to me through the stories he told me, even through his childhood memories. He often told me disturbing stories from his childhood that you know are so dark, so deep, so distraught, so full of angst…you can only take these stories, listen and put them on the bookshelf of your own mind for later reference. You catalogue them into files because they are so unique and you realize you are talking to an individual that is one of a kind. Now, I know I was talking to a true psychopath. I was privy to his mind and the inner workings of it.

On the day he brought me in to his parent’s home, Sandra introduced herself as “Mrs. Smith” to me, saying that only “friends” were allowed to call her Sandy or Sandra. She showed me her home, focusing on a few pieces of furniture that her father, Daniel’s grandfather had built, and a portrait that hung in the living room circa 1900. The portrait was of her family, except of one woman posed in it, whom she said had married into the family. The odd thing about that portrait, and I always questioned her, was that Daniel was the spitting image of the woman in that photo. Sandra would get an odd look on her face when I mentioned any references to this woman, and tell me she couldn’t remember her name. What she did finally tell me about Daniel’s great-aunt was that she had been married and divorced and this was her second marriage, indicating that she was not a blood relation. Still, I always wondered how Daniel and she could pass for twins. Then again, circa 1900 women didn’t have the opportunity to marry and divorce a few times. Sandra’s stories were just that. Her stories to set her moods and fantasies at the time. She was a Cluster-B personality type and she would say and do what ever pleased her at the moment.

Daniel was walking on eggshells through this first meeting, but by the end of it, “Mrs. Smith” had me calling her Sandy. I pretty much just listened to her stories about her home and how it ranked in her neighborhood according to her, wondered about what type of mother Daniel had growing up and was happy to leave. The quick impression I left with was of a woman trying to impress another woman with her home, because that’s what she had to work with at the time. She basically knew nothing about me but she kept the conversation wrapped around herself.

Over and done, I thought. I met the woman and wouldn’t have to think too much about her for a while. That was not what was on her mind, I was about to discover the very next morning when I noticed her van lying in wait for me in the parking lot where I would drop Daniel off for work. She was hidden behind a building and drove her van up to my car as soon as I began walking back to mine. She had hidden herself from view so neither Daniel or I could see her.

Like son, like mother, the stalking behavior had begun and I should have jumped in my car then, turned it on and fled. I had never encountered an older woman stalker with these personality disorders before dressed in sheep’s clothing. She fooled me the day I met her, but never again after that, and certainly not the day I discovered her watching me wishing her son a good day at work.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…They Plot To Murder-Should You Confront Them?)

I am a Survivor, with pain. I am Survivor with torturous mental pain that creeps into my thoughts when I least expect it. Daniel had many diagnoses, and he turned them all loose on me.

I wonder if he would sit and imagine how he would attempt to destroy me with his truly evil, sick, psychologically twisted thoughts. He obviously did. To sit now, and imagine that the man you lived with was plotting to poison you, plotting to hurt you, and yes, plotting to murder you takes your everyday thoughts to a new level of awareness of the human mind and its own brand of humanity and of those that lack the basic tenets of what normal people should have in their command of decency.

In retrospect, Daniel often spoke hauntingly of ways to kill his mother. He would envision his Jeep truck slipping on the ice, while plowing her driveway of the snow, and crashing into her living room picture window. He knew she always watched him through the window while he plowed, as if he couldn’t do the job properly, often coming outside to tell him of “spots” he might have missed or ways that were more efficient in snow plowing. She was always unwilling to cut her apron-strings ties to him and continued to involve herself in any way possible in his life.

He had talked to her cardiologist about her pacemaker and the old myth of how a magnet could stop it. But when he spoke to her doctor, it seemed that he was questioning the myth as a joke, using it as a cover, refuting the story so that it could really be carried to fruition. The cardiologist, didn’t know Daniel’s psychopathic tendencies and hateful, angry thoughts towards Sandra. He didn’t realize that Daniel was on a fishing expedition to learn what type of magnet, what size of magnet, and the method of how this could be done with the exact pacemaker Sandra had inserted in her heart at that time to kill his own mother without being discovered.

I listened in horror as the cardiologist explained to Daniel first jokingly about keeping his mother away from the refrigerator magnets. Then, he went on to explain about the heavier pull of magnets and a more detailed explanation. Daniel absorbed all of this information.  His mother laughed along with the two of them. In retrospect, thinking of her illnesses, I wonder if she realized how sick her son was and that he was plotting to kill her.

Did I attempt to stop Daniel from his thoughts of murder? Of course. He would get this dark, black, empty, vacant look in his eyes. I would tell him that if he murdered his mother, he would be apprehended eventually. I would try to convince him of the fruitlessness of his plan.  Eventually, his thoughts would seem to be distracted.

I didn’t know and still don’t know if his idea was to have me along as an accomplice or witness to what he wanted to do. It would be a very rare occurrence to find me alone in the house. Between the two of them (Sandra and him), I truly was a prisoner. They had me covered so I was never left alone. Perhaps by my constant talking about the negativity of the situation, I was managing to save myself again.

Daniel and his mother had none of those things that I refer to as basic human qualities of goodness to use on a regular basis at free will.  What they did have was the ability to mimic those simple human qualities when they believed they were needed for acceptance in their dealing with their neighbors, friends, public or doctors. These two people were never real. Yes, they stood before me. But everything about their demeanor was a sham concocted by their psychiatric illness, respectively. I only wish they had been fully identified by doctors back then, recognized for who they were and put away for help when opportunity had presented itself to me.

But Sandra’s money spoke volumes in keeping her and her son independent in a system that would keep them free to continue their destruction on unsuspecting people. That’s called justice in America.

Innocent until proven guilty. But the truth of that statement is innocent because you fall through cracks in various systems that don’t recognize signs that will continue to hurt others. That’s what happened to Daniel all his life. A mother to protect him, lie for him, buy his way out of trouble he caused, leaving his mind to become worse in its view of the world, thus creating a far worse scenario than if she had sought help for him as a child.

Sandra once laughingly told me the story of a constable coming to their home looking for Daniel, while she, Lester and Daniel were in the backyard. Sandra quickly told the constable he had just missed him. The constable, apparently a new hire, not having a description of Daniel, asked who the young man was in their yard. Sandra blatantly lied to the law enforcement officer, telling him that the man who stood before him was one of Daniel’s friends from around the block who also come looking for him. “Guess he’s pretty popular today!” Sandra glibly chirped at the constable, to avert attention from Daniel. The constable left and Sandra then investigated what the charges were about for her son before she had him turn himself in to the police station with her present to see if she could smooth whatever the problem was that he had done this time.

When Sandra told me this story, she laughed and had such a delightful gleam in her eyes that she fooled law enforcement. For what reason? Pathological lying? Her histrionic personality? No one can honestly answer the question. But one answer is clear. The mother son team of Daniel and Sandra Smith were one sick, twisted couple. That is a certainty.

When I realize now that I had confronted these two people often and put myself in a dangerous and tenuous position, I can honestly say that confrontation is not something I would recommend to people when they meet or realize they are living with people who have these personality disorders.

Sociopaths and psychopaths are dangerous people and do not react positively to confrontation. They do not react positively to a person that is going to reveal who they are and what they are about. They can be violent people. If you are in a situation where you realize or suspect that the person you are with falls into these categories, or has been diagnosed with these disorders, you might want to reconsider your relationship status with them.

They will deny if you accuse. They will attempt to twist your accusations back at you and make you the accused. They will attempt to frustrate you. They can become violent and attack to get you under their control if they don’t see themselves as succeeding. The best solution to is to walk away and evade this type of person. Stop all contact with them. Change your phone number, your email accounts, your online accounts, and if you must move your residence, you move also. This may sound drastic, but trust me when I say this,  a time may come when you realize it is the only safe thing to do.

You can help yourself. You cannot help them. Remember these words. They cannot be helped. They cannot be rehabilitated. You are the Survivor. Be proud of yourself for walking away and being strong.

I’m delighted I’m no longer with them. I thank the heavens for getting me out alive every day. I just wonder if they will ever get out of my head.

Peace.

Sorceress

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