Stop Those Green Men!

So one evening I’m laying in bed watching tv with him and he turns to me with this look of desperation and pleading in his eyes and says, “Stop those Green Men! Please! You know how to make them go away!”  I side-ways look at him, thinking he’s joking or god knows what, but he’s not. He’s dead-serious. Really dead-serious. There’s this look of timidity in his eyes that I had rarely seen.

So I ask him where the Green Men are. He points to the bottom of the bed. He starts cowering under the covers. His body is beginning to tremble. His eyes are luminous as he’s alternately staring at me and the foot of the bed. He keeps begging me to get rid of them, because only I can.

So I decide to pretend that I do see these Green Men. After all, if he thinks I have power over them, and they have power over him, well, you do the math here. He’s freaking out, hiding under the covers and I’m talking to airspace sternly, asking them why they’re here for Daniel. I finally point at “them” and tell “them” to leave so he can come up for air.

That seemed to placate him, altho he still hid under the covers for awhile and then finally went to sleep. So now the psychopath was seeing things-people. In his mind, I could get rid of them. Like I’ve said before, his mind was interesting. But the Green Men was a new addition. He was getting worse, making my time shorter.

I had been planning on escaping, but now I had to up everything in timing. None of this was easy, it never was and still isn’t. It just gets easier now when I have to recall it. At least I’m not as wiped out as before. Now it’s more of yeah, that happened, I survived kind of thing while the other person looks at me strangely not understanding why I’m not locked up or an addict dulling my pain.

I’m not doing any of those things because I won’t let him take me down. The only person that can do that is me. He’s just not worth it. I’m too busy living my life, and I have a huge bucket list with a life to live ahead of me. Too many years were wasted while I had to recuperate in a wheelchair from the accident he caused trying to murder me, then years as a hostage in my home under his mother and him while they alternately poisoned and took care of me. I fought my way out and I’d do it again. Like I said, the only person that can take me down is me.

Peace.

Sorceress

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.

 

 

 

Hole In The Wall

So one afternoon I’m sitting with Daniel at his psychiatric appointment because apparently he doesn’t lie when I’m in attendance with him. Odd, but true. I’m not really allowed to talk, just sit there. Clearly, I can make eye contact with him. Raise an eyebrow, pointedly stare, which I’m rather good at doing. I couldn’t help myself when I knew he’d be doling crap. Which is why I had been requested to sit in at some of his sessions. Lucky me.

Daniel had always talked to me. One of the reasons I was fascinated by his mind. Knowing he was diagnosed psychopathic, and knowing the psychiatric background of his mother, I knew his mind was a goldmine of information. So was his mothers. And since they didn’t see me as a professional, I wasn’t a threat to them. They could tell me anything. And they did. Much of it horrifying.

This particular afternoon, Daniel was talking about voyeurism. I already knew some of his past stories, beginning with his childhood. How he convinced a little girl when he was 9 years old and she was 7 to prance before him up on a boat rack his father had made behind the garage. He had convinced her to take off her panties and he’d throw mud balls at her vagina.  That was his earliest sexual memory.

Then the bomb hits. He turns to me and says he’s been watching me. He tells me that he had created a hole in the wall of the ceiling of the bathroom so that when I was in the shower or just in the bathroom, he could watch me.  Deal was, I couldn’t say a word. I wasn’t there for therapy, he was.

So there I am, stoic, quiet, blazing eyes, thinking a million thoughts. Feeling humiliated at the time. I knew he had committed this act on others, friends of his. But me? Whoa, the buck stops here. Apparently not. I did not consent, nor did the people he told me about. The little girl that he threw the mud balls at did not understand what she was consenting to. He was violating the law, although the law is sketchy depending on where you live geographically.

According to the DSM, voyeurs may have a background of alcohol and drug abuse, be obsessive-compulsive, have a background of childhood abuse, anti-social behaviors, attention-deficit disorder, personality disorders, bi-polar disorder and more. So no surprise there. My first reaction I believe was justified, and then I realized, it’s not my fault. I didn’t create him. I did not cause these behaviors. If it wasn’t me, it would have been another woman. And probably still is.

Just another rock to step over.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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Survivors-Climbing Mountains Because The Mountain Is There

Our childhood/other traumas creates/molds our adulthood. Or does it? It paves the way. It creates memories and triggers for us. What it’s supposed to do is create happy memories and lay proper foundations for a person so they can live their life in society with others in a decently normal fashion with happiness.  Honestly, how many people have had absolutely nothing horrible or traumatic occur, events they wouldn’t hesitate to share with someone, really understand or appreciate what Survivors are living with in the aftermath? They read the stories and see events happen to people. How much empathy, compassion and concern is there? Do they feel?

There could be a myriad of emotions on their side. They could have pity. They could be non-believers, thinking the Survivor is simply being dramatic. After all, if their life was so picture-perfect-white-picket-fence how could someone else’s life have been so bad and no one saved that child or woman? Or they think you just write a great story. Or they get angry because they have a vested interest in you and don’t want to hear anymore because they can’t bear to listen to the injustices. It hurts them, too. Or they simply don’t get it. They just don’t understand because it’s too mind-boggling to them. They’re too closed to open up to understand anyone else because they don’t understand themselves.

We as Survivors tell our stories because we have to. Sometimes the stories just spill out at inopportune times. Sometimes we’re asked about  a particular moment in time so we must explain. Other times, there’s a trigger, and again, an explanation is due. The reactions may not always be positive, in fact, they’re sometimes negative or just shocked faces. Oh well. They asked, we tell.

Recently, a newer acquaintance asked me some questions about something in my past. I answered the best I could. I’m an honest person and have nothing to hide. My mantra is if I don’t tell any lies I won’t have to remember them. So we’re having this conversation and I’m attempting to explain to her what she’s asking. Suddenly she tells me that she thinks I obsess too much on the past and that isn’t any good for me. I started to laugh. I told her that wasn’t true at all. I said that she had asked me questions so I was answering them. She had brought up the past, I didn’t. How was that obsessing about the past if she was the one that had initiated the discussion? She couldn’t answer because she knew I was right.

I don’t sit and think about traumas and all that went on before. Believe me, my PTSD does that for me. It brings my memories back as triggers when I least expect them. I have one dear person I do talk with when I want to about things from my past. We share our stories when we’re in the mood in a healthy way trying to sort things out.

But Survivors are damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I do know we understand each other. When you find another, it’s like finding another soul. Another soul who understands we’re people who might like to look out the window at nothing, who has eyes that are deeper than anyone’s you’ve ever known and someone who has more layers than an onion.

Keep those Survivors close when you meet them. They’re special people. The pain they know and have felt is intolerable to most but they’ve survived and surmounted it. They’re people who can climb mountains now simply because the mountain is there.

Peace.

Sorceress.

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.

 

 

Ever See A Fly On A Leash?

Psychopaths are abusive to animals. So they say. And the way they are abusive isn’t always the way you might normally expect.

Daniel had come into my store one day. I was re-dressing the main window. He hopped up on the ledge and began talking to me. I was working with mannequins and set-ups while he was (I’m guessing here) trying to impress me. There was a fly in the window buzzing around. It was summertime and the front door was open.

“Ever see a fly on a leash?” he asked. I just looked at him while I kept myself busy. No, I’d never seen a fly on a leash and I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

Before I realized what he was doing, he reached over and plucked a hair from my head. Yeah, literally, plucked a strand of hair from my head. Lucky for him it was one strand. Altho I did let loose with a string of expletives and was angry at what he had just done. He said he needed the strand of hair to show me something.

He then proceeded to catch the fly. I’m sure by now you know where this is going but I’ll keep on telling the story. His back was to me at this point. I was thinking this guy is a bit off/weird/whatever and kept on working. He suddenly turned around and opened his hand. In it was the “fly on a leash”.  He had wrapped my one strand of hair around the fly, tied it, and it was now tethered.

To some, that may just be a fly. To me, it was a living insect that he had just trapped and was torturing. And to do that so quickly and successfully meant he had done this before. Who actually thinks of leashing flies? Yeah, well, I guess psychopaths and their assorted counterparts do. It takes a uniquely convoluted mind to think of that one.

Oh those Red Flags.

Peace.

Sorceress

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.

Stop Victimizing The Victim. Start Penalizing The Perpetrator.

You can’t victimize the victim. You shouldn’t victimize the victim. But it still happens every day.

In states where laws determine a victim must come forward, they must also include protection for the victim. Protection in the form of a PFA, non-harassment in the courts should they testify, protection when they testify and empathy and compassion from their local police department(s).

Very often, victims of domestic violence, rape, stalking and similar crimes are frightened and further abused without any further support networks. These victims are protecting their children, their pets and their homes. They may not have the resources they need to garner the support that is needed to protect them. They may be unaware of where to go or where help is located.

Although commercials and print ads are prevalent, it isn’t easy to find help. At times, actually securing the help you need may seem as if you have to jump through hoops of fire. It’s easy for an observer who has never been through hell to sit in their arm chair and simply say “Leave the bastard. What’s wrong with that woman?” But they’ve not experienced the trauma and they’re not standing in their shoes. Our society needs to educate from an early age that abuse and bullying is wrong.

Just as a beginning police officer is stunned with his own stun gun so he feels the force of what that gun can do, those in power that respond should be made to feel what it’s like to be bullied/beaten/berated/psychologically abused and so on so they can fully appreciate what they are dealing with when they respond to a call. They need to understand that No Means No. That “good ole boys will be good ole boys” doesn’t mean anything. They need to appreciate the fear in a victim’s eyes. They also need to stop coddling men who are bullies over women because of their own insecurities. We need to educate our law enforcement to understand that victims should be handled with a national policy, not with an officers pre-conditioned idea when they answer the call.

Enough is enough. Stop Victimizing The Victim. Start Penalizing The Perpetrator. Their time has come.

Peace.

Sorceress.

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.

Defining Moment.

Fullscreen capture 2172016 20814 PMDoes the psychopath define me or do I define myself? I’ve talked about re-defining myself, creating a new persona and re-building my life. Thinking about the last few years and how far I’ve come through my own abyss, I’ve come to realize that altho some may believe that when a person comes into contact with a psychopath, that person defines the future of them, I do believe that only a person themselves are responsible for what occurs in their life.

Many people sit in their chairs and blame their parents/caregivers for who they are today. They take issue for the way they were raised, the abuses they may have incurred and how they were held back in their childhoods.

I recently read a review on a perfume from a woman where she stated that her mother always spent money on herself and never on her children, so as a child, this woman loved spending overnights at other children’s homes so that her own laundry would smell “fresh and clean” with laundry sheets. The perfume she was reviewing reminded her of that smell and she was delighted to own it because of the memory of going to others’ homes.

Somehow, it bothered me that the reviewer had to include her mother in the review. Maybe her mother was allergic to laundry sheets. Maybe her mother couldn’t stand the scent. Personally, I never used laundry sheets in the dryer because I couldn’t stand the scent it left on clothing. And I didn’t like the chemicals. But the point is, why blame someone else for something totally irrelevant? Just go forward. Buy the perfume, but don’t blame your mother for buying it. There may be other issues in your life concerning your parent, dig deeper and grow.

I never want other Survivors to just wallow in self-pity and blame others for what happened to them for their current situation. What happened to them is horrible. What happened to them is not their fault. What happened to them wreaked havoc on their memories and will continue to do so forever. But it does not define them unless they allow it to. 

Here’s the catch that some Survivors might believe keeps them in a vicious cycle. When you meet someone new in your life, generally you want to trust that person. You begin talking with them, they share insights about their past and hopefully, you’d like to share insights about your past, too. So you start to talk about some things, carefully leaving out the bad stuff. But, eventually, you know you have to talk about it.

And when that time comes, you have a 50-50 chance of the other person’s reaction. Honestly, it’s probably an 80-20 chance. So you tell them some horrific stories, they’re amazed/horrified/don’t know whether to pity you/act sympathetic/walk away. Now they’re the one walking on those eggshells. Not that you wanted them to, but you had to tell them at some point. Because if you didn’t, then you just might be accused of holding back on them. It’s a vicious cycle.

I’ve never kept anything back from anyone. If I meet someone who seems worthwhile, I gradually tell them my story. If they can’t take it, that’s on them.

I’ve learned that in re-defining myself, I am who I am. I am not going to change myself. I have a past that’s not so neat and tidy. It doesn’t have a white picket fence. It’s scary to some. If they’re frightened by it, they shouldn’t let the door hit them on they’re way out.

Because if anyone should be frightened, that person should be me, not them. That’s the amusing part to me. When I am asked if the psychopath could hurt  them, I could scream. If that’s their first question after I explain it all, instead of their asking if am still at risk, then I know they are a weak person who looks out for themselves first.

Fullscreen capture 2172016 20658 PM

And this is how I am re-defining myself. I am strong. I am not vulnerable. I can take care of myself. I watch how people react. This is me and frankly, if you don’t like it, I’m not going to change for you. I’ve lost too much in my past and I’m not going to lose any more.

I realize what issues I have and what events in my past cause me to behave the way I do. That’s my current choice because it’s my personal way of dealing with life. If anyone has any questions, all they have to do is ask. No one is perfect, I certainly am not. But I sure as hell will never change for anyone. Today and each day forward is my defining moment.

Peace.

Sorceress.

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.

 

No Means No.

I’m still here. Still defining myself. Still with nightmares. Still wondering if I’m broken. Or am I picking up the pieces and repairing them? Repairing them accurately? Or just putting them back together?

Some people sing the same old song and don’t realize what year it is. Others go on to new music and pretend the classics don’t exist. What feels right isn’t always right. Sometimes, what feels odd is just growth. And that’s where the scary part comes in.

It’s not just children that feel fear. Adults feel it, too. Only their fear manifests itself in different ways. Humans show fear in different forms. Anger, pompous attitudes, shyness, elitist attitudes…know any of these types?

I know I’ve grown. Grown immeasurably. I can feel it. I can see it in my eyes. But, most importantly, I can hear it in my voice when I say no. When I say no to ideas and to acts that others think are appropriate. When others tell me I am at fault for something I know I didn’t do, when I am blamed or accused for a situation that someone else has manipulated, I will not walk away. I will stand for myself and calmly explain what has happened. I will also always tell the truth, I always have.

The experiences I have endured in my life could have been major obstacles to experiencing future pleasures and truly enjoying what life has to offer. Having a narcissistic mother, the psychopath and his mother were indeed traumatic events. There were others, and at times, I wondered, and I honestly still do, why I’m that chosen one. I just keep getting stronger and stronger.

Recently, I visited a friend who I’d known for about five years. He’d visited me in my new home when I’d moved and I’d shown him my new town. We had a great time as friends, hiking, visiting the local shops, etc., and we’d always kept in touch. I’d decided to go visit him many months later and also, visit a few other friends up in my old area where I used to live.

On the second day of the visit, this friend had other plans for me, apparently. He decided he was going to rape me. My reaction? I began to fight him and asked him, “What the f*ck are you doing?” angrily. He persisted, telling me, he deserved it, which only made me angrier. Now, we are only friends, there was no hidden agenda on my part and he knew how I felt. I kept fighting him, telling him absolutely not, no means no.

At this part, I will tell you he had been drinking.  That should not excuse him at all. He knew what he was doing. When he realized that I would not give in to his demands, he then told me to leave his home. It was 3 a.m. and he told me to leave. I had a one and a half-hour drive home and had not slept yet.

I took my things, packed my car and left as quickly as I could. By then it was 3:30 a.m. I was exhausted from battling him and no sleep. I knew I had a long drive ahead and was not looking forward to it.

The next morning he texted me. He threatened me. I ignored his text and didn’t respond. That’s why I say he knew what he was doing. If he knew enough to text me the next day, he certainly remembered what he did the previous evening.

The second day, he texted me again. I ignored his text again. He never texted again.

What did this experience do to me? I felt let down about people. Knowing someone for five years, thinking I knew someone for five years and having them turn on me in this way made me wonder if you ever really know anyone. Who can you trust?

What I did learn is that I can trust myself. I fought this man and said no. He probably thought I would give in, but I didn’t. He probably thought because it was the middle of the night, I wouldn’t leave. I didn’t care what time it was, I didn’t want to spend another minute around a person that is that soul-less.  I spent about two weeks dealing with what happened. He turned into garbage that should rot in hell but that’s not my call. I’m sure he will get his in the end.

I mentioned fear and how it rears its ugly head in different forms. This man has prostate cancer but refuses to take the appropriate medication for his condition. Why? Because he told me that he wouldn’t be able to function as a male could if he did take the meds his doctor wanted him to have. I told him he was shortening his life if he didn’t take them. He said that his virility was more important. I told him that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. That was a conversation we’d had over a year ago. I suppose his fear of not being a real man became juxtaposed into an attempted rape that night. I feel sorry for him. He’s not a real man anymore.  Maybe he never was.  And his prostate cancer has nothing to do with it.

Update: The Soul-Less Sexual Predator dared to text me recently. I did not respond. This is what he said. “Hey. Let’s be adults and start communicating again. It’s in the past already and I have no hard feelings and I miss talking with you. I think we can still have good times together. I know you were upset. Oh well, lmk one way or the other.”

Really? I told you he had no soul. He also has no brain cells. Let’s break it down.

I’m the adult, you’re not. No, I don’t want to communicate with an as*hole. It’s in your past because your mind doesn’t realize attacking a woman is a violent crime punishable by law. There’s something seriously f*cked up here.

I wonder how many other women he’s attacked. He has no hard feelings? For what? Apparently you don’t realize what you did. Recidivism rates vary and I won’t discuss them here because of the immense variables.

I can tell you that after talking with close friends about this ordeal, another woman admitted to me that 5 years ago he had sexually stalk-texted her after she had met him. I wish she had shared that information but she was so disgusted but it/him she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. A prime reason why the recidivism rate for sexual offenders can vary so greatly. Women don’t always talk.

I certainly don’t miss this unfortunate excuse for a human being. More than upset, I was disappointed in him and disgusted. I was angry at his behavior. I’ll never speak to him again.

If ever called to court, I’d be happy to speak at him, there’s a difference. Women need to be protected from this type of predator, the sheep in wolve’s clothing.

Peace.

Sorceress.

All works past, present and future are protected under a CCC. Creative Common License, Kaarie Blake Musings by Kaarie Blake is licensed under a Creative Common Attribution-Noncommercial-Noderivs-3.0-Unported License.