Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…The Branding.)

When you look into the abyss, the abyss begins to stare back into you. When you are down, is there anywhere to go but up? When all is taken from you, and you feel there is nothing left, do you walk away? After dealing with a psychopath, I have felt a myriad of emotions. I have felt so many feelings. I have been scarred for life by a rapier that has been thrust into my soul and twisted a path of destruction that I wonder if I will ever return to my normal self.

To the public eye, I put on a normal face. Outside the door of my home, when I step outside, I am another person. I tell myself I must be that other person. That is the salvation to my living. I mustn’t allow what has happened to me tear down every vestige of my being where I will become a hermit never to face the real world again.

Inside my home, my world is another reality. It is a place where triggers occur freely. Where my guard is down and my mind is allowed to roam freely. The sadness of allowing this to happen is that the triggers can occur at any time in this freedom. And they do. I try to bat them away. I keep myself busy. I multi-task with an array of things to do, all compiled around me. I’m seemingly always busy, trying to keep my mind free of those other horrible thoughts, while keeping on task of the current projects at hand. But the mind is a curious enigma.

Having been diagnosed with PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I realize that triggers can occur at any time. I realize my sanity borders on a threshold so thin I wish I could reach out to all other women suffering from the hells I am and tell them that they too will survive. I want to tell each and everyone of them that they are so much better than the person that did this to them.  I want them to know that the person responsible for their own PTSD is worth nothing and is equal to the dirt found on the bottom of their boots.


The brain won’t be fooled. Although it tucks away the horrible images, thoughts, ideas and events that occurred in the past with Daniel Smith and his mother Sandra, it won’t forget them. How I wish it could. My brain did forget images and events for a while. At least some of them. And now, as time has passed, slowly, ever so slowly, my brain is allowing some of those images and events to seep back into my memories.

And these memories tarnish my days. They blacken my nights. They cloud my good thoughts of what humanity can be. These memories astonish me that I lived through times so horrific and survived to sit here today to tell this story.

Daniel was a very sexual being, as psychopaths can be. He enjoyed game-playing. He also enjoyed a darker side of game-playing called BDSM, which involved bondage, sadism, and the use of various implements. One night, he had his back turned to me, and I thought he was lighting a cigarette for himself on his nightstand. He quickly turned to me, held me down, and with the use of a paper clip that he had been burning into a red-hot poker, branded me.

He had already fashioned the clip into the shape of a heart. He told me that he wanted to put his heart on my breast to tell me of his love. I’ll carry the brand forever now. I remember screaming, but his hand over my mouth muffled my screams. I was near passing out, and he was telling me to breath deeply. The pain was excruciating.

When he was finished, he examined his handiwork. He was pleased. No questions about my pain. No concern for my pain. His only care was that he had now branded me. He looked at the brand and questioned if it was deep enough, if it would last,  wondering if he should re-heat the metal and brand me again. His eyes were black and unseeing and his voice was more of a mumble as he spoke of what he was doing to me.

Sometime later, when Doc B saw the brand, she questioned me about it. She asked if this was something to be concerned about. Her exact words. I looked at her with open eyes trying to tell her. Daniel was in the room, as usual. I hesitantly said no. There was nothing she could do if I responded no. She knew and suspected back then that something was wrong. In my eyes, I was trying, attempting to tell her something was wrong. Yet Daniel hovered over me, threateningly.

Already two of my parrots were dead. Two cats had died suspiciously. Now in retrospect, none of these deaths were suspicious at all. He was right there when they died. He was the one that announced they had died. I needed to get out of this down-spiraling situation as soon as my body was well enough to take care of itself on its own. I didn’t have anyone to go to for help. I felt helpless, as many women do in these situations.


But I knew the time was coming soon and I had to find help, somewhere, somehow. At that point, I had graduated to using a walker, was beginning to verbalize again, I was learning exercises for brain trauma patients to create new neural pathways. My life was an intense struggle to get away from this man and his mother and I was determined to do it. I quietly worked at what I needed to do to get myself stronger. Somehow, some way, I would walk on my own again. I would talk again. I would get away.



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.


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