Homelessness In America

HomelessnessInAmerica1A friend of mine from New York City sent me this photo. What was startling to both of us was the bale of hay in the man’s cart. Actually, the mixture of goods in this homeless man’s cart is mind-boggling. A few hours later, the cart had moved.

HomelessnessinAmerica2 Don’t know why some of its contents were on the ground, but people just carry on about their business. Another normal day.  The cart belongs to a man that my friend has seen locally for years. Last night he saw him sleeping on a mattress next to his cart. My friend bought him a sandwich at the deli and went in. This is life in America.

HomelessnessInAmerica3

People experiencing homelessness in America affects many persons. But you knew that, didn’t you? You either turn a blind eye to it or you may donate a few dollars here or there, drop a few coins into someone’s cup, turn your car window up when you see a pan-handler at a corner asking for money or wonder just if that person really is homeless. Or how did that person become homeless. You may think that homeless people are only the ones that sleep on park benches with cartons as blankets. Not having a roof over your head affects more people than you think in more ways than you can ever imagine in America.

I’ve known people that have slept in their cars (they were the lucky ones) because they didn’t have homes. People with college educations and excellent jobs or excellent job skills. Women who left abusive relationships because their lives depended on that decision. They had nowhere else to go and local shelters were full.

People who are on assistance who have slum landlords and are forced to leave their apartments because the city has condemned their apartments(the landlord’s fault) but there is nowhere to place them immediately.  Again, shelters are full.

Veterans who are on disability and cannot find a place anymore in our society and have fallen through the cracks. They’ve been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder but don’t have the resources to get the help they so desperately need.

I’m not going to talk about substance abuse and going down the rabbit hole as a reason for homelessness. That’s an easy mark for people to say that’s the person’s own fault. Well, no, it’s not. Something caused that substance abuse and that’s all I’ll say. Dark holes inside are created by a much larger abyss outside.

So there’s a problem in America that needs to be addressed. It needs to be respected. How can you help?

-Don’t look away.

-Teach your children to help.

-Don’t stereo-type.

-Smile.

-Donate your clean, good used goods.

-If you are an employer, find a way to offer jobs through programs.

-Buy local food coupons that can be redeemed and give them out instead of money.

-When you see a panhandler do this: http://www.nationalhomeless.org/want_to_help/panhandle.html

-C.A.R.E.=C – Contribute (food drives, money, etc.,)
A – Advocate
R – Reach Out (volunteering)
E – Educate (http://www.nationalhomeless.org/want_to_help/index.html)

The National Coalition For The Homeless has a factsheet with information on ways you can get help and give help here: http://www.nationalhomeless.org/factsheets/#want

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.

How To Survive Narcissists.

I detest poinsettias. Those red flowers that pop up in Christmas and holiday decorations this time of year that so many people love. Why? My mother used to hang these poinsettia decorations from the front windows. Maybe. If she was in the mood. I used to sit and wonder if any decorations would be put up with that ball in my stomach each year

You see, whether or not the poinsettias went up was blamed on me.  Christmas decorations had to be hung up for children, I would be told, and the neighbors had been asking her about my excitement about the impending holiday. So, she was forced to decorate all because of me. It was my fault that she had to go through this decorating and un-decorating.

She’d look at me with those ice eyes of hers, complaining about the tree and how regardless of whether it was a real one or a fake one, it was still trouble. A real one dropped needles on her carpeting and a fake one was a pain to put together. Forget decorating the tree. No matter where I attempted to hang an ornament, it didn’t work. And those silver icicles? I always put them on wrong. They were fronds of silver icicles that you threw on a tree, how could you put them on wrong? The Ice Woman found a way you could. Oh Lordie, how half of me hated Christmas and the other half didn’t because I wondered if I would get any presents.

For her, the tree had to be perfect. Her definition of beauty was not seen through a child’s eyes. You know how a child decorates with lopsided ways? And their favorite home-made (which I never did) or school-made ornaments were always front and center because they should be? To the narcissitic Mother, that doesn’t happen. She wants perfection in her eyes that will bring accolades to her. But if they don’t, well, hell hath no fury like her.

Once you come to the realization that you are a child of a Narcisstic parent, it opens a world of doors for you. The Universe suddenly looms larger than life. Doors open and shut. The realization that I had a narcissistic Mother has taken me decades. The fact that I was being raised in a dysfunctional household I realized somewhere in my middle school years. The dawn of awakening of the full impact of all the damage did not come until my 40’s. Until that time, I was living in a world as another person that had been shaped by the tyrannical escapades of her.

She had died years earlier, but her legacy lived on. It had lasting effects on me. The one place it did not claw through to was my children. I am not sure why or how, but I have not raised my own in the manner she raised me. I was very careful not to behave in the manner she did when I was raising my children even to the extent of going overboard in the opposite direction. When they were very young, she would visit with my father, and she would make snarky comments about my oldest. He was a toddler at the time and my daughter was a baby. Then she would laugh at her comments. I’d turn to her and tell her to be quiet about her grandson, he’s perfectly normal and if she didn’t have anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all. She would continue, saying I didn’t have a sense of humor. I would tell her if that’s all she had to say, then I didn’t want to listen to her, and walk away. And I would. I wanted to protect my children from her. She would ignore my infant daughter, which was fine by me.

But at family parties, she never made these comments about my children. Instead, the accolades were made. The compliments would be told. The smiles and loving hugs given. All bs. Because behind closed doors no one received smiles and hugs or even an “I Love You” from her.

But, that’s life with a narcissistic person. So, how do you go on? How do you break away? How do you compartmentalize the pain they have caused you for so many years? Is there guilt and if there is, what do you do? How do you survive a narcissist?

Only you can make a decision to walk away. Walking away can be forever, can be for the day’s conversation or can be for a few hours. Regardless, it can give you strength over their words. It can lay the foundation for your future survival in this type of relationship. If you feel guilty over walking away from your parent, don’t. Do they feel guilty over making you feel like a twisted ball of twine? You shouldn’t feel guilty being a victim of someone with an illness.

The most difficult part of dealing with the realization of admitting you have been a victim of a narcissist is now dealing with the pain and attempting to put it away (for the most part). You must compartmentalize it. No one will help you to do that because only you were the one that was originally hurt. There are some that won’t believe you because they didn’t see it happening in the family. But, you know the damage that occurred, and that’s what’s important. As you deal with those issues that you remember, put them up on an imaginary shelf, mark them closed and take a deep breath. Remember that you were the victim and it’s you that is now receiving compensation in the form of new-found happiness, relief and the ability to breathe easier.

Each little task you do for yourself brings you one step closer to being a full-fledged Survivor and that’s a wonderful feeling. You can do it. You’ve survived this long under them, you can survive over them. It’s time for you now.

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.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Surviving The Master Manipulator/Narcissist.

Rose Kennedy, 1890-1885.

Rose Kennedy, 1890-1995.

It could be your demise if you don’t realize how the master manipulator is controlling your life. When the psychopath isolates you, and you realize you are alone, truly alone without any support, a coldness should envelop your very existence. But in many cases, if you are living with one, this doesn’t happen.

It doesn’t happen because the psychopath has created a false reality for you of a happy life together. He has parroted back to you your dreams, your desires, your wants and even your morals in his desires to acquire you. Once this cycle is complete, and for some, it doesn’t take very long, your horrific journey with a psychopath’s mind will start. What you thought of as your reality soon becomes a horrible nightmare concocted by a twisted mind. Your life as you once knew it, no longer exists. You are now alone at the mercy of a psychopath, a narcissist, or one of many destructive personalities that thrive on and through their victims until they no longer need their prey.

Sound harsh? It is. Sick and twisted? Most definitely. Can you escape? Perhaps. If you keep a network somewhere, somehow of people, friends, acquaintances that you trust in your life and who also trust you and know you explicitly. These people must know you better than the perpetrator of the wrongs being committed against you. Most people don’t want to get involved. Most people will walk away from you in these situations. That’s what our society has created. The “I don’t really want to get involved” attitude. And that’s partly understandable.

Why? Because most people are uneducated or under-educated about what true psychopaths, etc., can do to their victims. Most victims and Survivors do not and will not speak out about their trials and tribulations of their pasts. It’s too difficult bringing up past horrors. They say they want to move on, but the reality of the situation is that remembering what has happened to them is too painful. It is a hurt that goes deep into a dark place where no one should exist or ever have to visit or re-visit. A very select few have chosen to speak up about their experiences with men of these character/personality flaws. You’ll find these people in women’s shelters, usually as volunteers.

When I was a child, my father used to give me his sage advice. Sometimes, it sounded more like street sage advice. He was a sheriff’s officer, who also did work for the F.B.I., and I know he saw the dregs of society. He used to talk about the people who were institutionalized as if it was a dinner topic at home with my mother. That was his form of release. As a child, his stories were very difficult to listen to, imagining what these men had done to be put away.

One piece of advice my dad gave me as a little girl was “to always keep a card in your back pocket”. That advice has always stuck with me.

In the beginning of my relationship with this family, I had a particular hair stylist. I had used this stylist before for about 7 years before meeting them. Sandra, in her irrational imitations of me, decided to go to this stylist and have him copy my hair cut and hair color. When she came home to show me, I was aghast. She looked like a duplicate of me, at least from the head up. It was very eery. I went to my stylist and changed my hair cut and we discussed what had happened. He told me how she had made an appointment, gone in and requested to look like me. Well, money’s money, he said, and did what was requested. After all those years of my business, I would have thought he would have had better sense. About a month later, I made my usual appointment. I walk into his upscale salon, tell them my name, and sit down. Normally, he would take one customer at a time upstairs in his renovated townhome now salon. He usually would walk downstairs to greet his customer. When the receptionist called him to announce my arrival, he yelled down the stairs, “Tell her she’s late. Tell her I won’t be seeing her.” I wasn’t late. I was on time, which I told the receptionist. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. She called back to him. She tells me that he said not to bother making another appointment, as he was cutting his client list. Now this didn’t make any sense to me. After seven years of camaraderie, beautiful haircuts, a wonderful relationship with my stylist, he won’t even talk to me? What’s going on?

So I begin to look for another. I find a wonderful woman in another town. She and I hit it off immediately. She is the owner of a salon that she herself has renovated, my age, and we have a lot in common. I don’t tell Sandra where I am going to cut my hair now, even tho she is aware of what happened at the Easton stylist. She wants to know, but I tell her she has her hair cut there, no need to go to another stylist.

Eventually, she finds out. Through snooping, through Daniel telling her, I have no idea how she found out, but she did after about a year and a half. Now I’ve been going to visit this other stylist throughout this time period, very happy with my cuts, very happy with the service, and we’ve become friends. Sandra isn’t aware of our friendship. I haven’t told anyone of the friendship. This was my card in my back pocket. It was no one’s business but my own.

One day I walk in to get my hair done, and this stylist tells me she has some very interesting news for me, but, I’d better sit down first. She takes me to another room where others aren’t present. She proceeds to tell me that Sandra Smith had been in for a haircut. I’m surprised. I tell her that I had not given Sandra her name. She knew this. She then goes on to explain that when Sandra was in for the haircut, Sandra was very talkative about me. As my friend is explaining this, she has a mysterious smile on her face. “Know what she claims you said about me?” she inquires. “I have no idea.” I tell her. “Sandra told me that you tell everyone what a horrible haircut I give. That I shouldn’t be running a business like this. And as far as coloring hair, I couldn’t color paper with crayons if I tried.” Then she started laughing. I was horrified. She quickly told me she didn’t believe a word Sandra said, so not to worry. After all, if I really did say those things, why would I keep returning to her for haircuts and put my head at her mercy?

“What did you say to her?” I asked. “Oh, I gave her holy hell. I told her she was a narcissistic liar that needed front and center and she wasn’t getting it. That she ruined your first stylist, so you came to me and now she’s trying to start stories with me. I told her it won’t work. When she tried to appease me with a huge tip, I threw it back at her and told her never to make an appointment here again. And I told her she needed to get back with her psychiatrist.” I began smiling at my friend who had defended me. One of a very few select people that weren’t afraid of the Smiths or who weren’t greedy and lured by their money. I had a new-found respect for this woman, a woman who had traveled across the US when she acquired the beauty salon, a woman who changed careers mid-life to start again. She was a former psychologist. That’s why Sandra Smith couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes.

But people like her were few and far in-between. She had the knowledge to understand what was going on. She didn’t know all of what was going on behind the scenes. But in the case of Sandra’s lying, she didn’t believe. And as far as Sandra’s many other lies, I would find out later that many people did believe her.

Sandra even went so far, (remember she worked in a flea market selling Avon), to tell people that I had died as a result of my motor vehicle accident. I found this out by chance. I was walking alone years after, in a flea market near that area where she had worked, when I met a former vendor. The look on their face was of a person that had just seen a ghost. Again, confusion on my face. They sputtered, “I thought you were dead.” Make a long story short, Sandra had been telling people in that area of that flea market that I had passed away from my injuries.

These two manipulators did a lot of damage for me. I’m still cleaning it up years later. And as difficult as it is for me to tell this story, when I repeat it to some so-called friends of mine, it is dismissed as  “Well, you can’t go on thinking about it. You have to forget about it. I’ve had stuff happen to me and I don’t think about it anymore.” “Stuff” happening to someone isn’t the same as abusive atrocities inflicted that are designed to isolate and deliberately hurt someone’s psyche. When traumas are inflicted upon someone, they don’t forget. The pain remains, whether they choose to remember or not.

Kahlil Gibran, 1883-1931.

Kahlil Gibran, 1883-1931.

One of my favorite quotes comes from Kahlil Gibran. “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” It’s the scars that create the people we are today. We are born a blank canvas and each trauma creates a color, a dot on that canvas throughout our life. How we observe that canvas is up to us. How we perceive it is our decision. There are many ways to look at a picture. There are many ways to rotate it to view it. If it doesn’t work one way, turn it around. Just remember how strong your soul and character is. You have that quality. No one can take that away from you. That’s impressive. You have an indeterminable amount of strength to work with. Use it.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Kahlil Gibran cuff available here: https://www.artfulvision.com/Kahlil-Gibran-Quote-Cuff.html

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.

When Is It Going To End? Fighting The Wrongs Of Domestic Abuse.

So when does it all end? That’s the question I asked myself watching an episode of Law and Order the other night. I watched the character of Goren face down a suspect who was pointing a gun at him who wanted to commit suicide. The man wanted to kill Goren first and Goren said to him, “Who’s going to clean up the blood? Your daughter?” As he was saying this to the man to catch him off guard, he then was able to wrestle the gun from him, and take him down. It so reminded me of the time Daniel had held a butcher knife to my neck and I had asked him the same question. “Who’s going to clean the blood from the kitchen floor? Your mother?” That line had given me just enough time to cause him to stumble in his thinking to allow me to get out of his grasp and have him drop the butcher knife. The scene in the tv show was so eerily similar. My episode with Daniel ran fourteen years ago. The Law and Order episode was a repeat from a few years back.

Did I start to shake? A bit. I was more frozen than anything. All I could think was when is it going to end. And I realized then it never really will. I am the victim of a violent crime, the victim of a violent person, the victim of a psychopath, the victim of a person who committed violent and repetitive atrocities against me. No matter what anyone tells me, those things will always be in my head. I can’t stop them from re-appearing at inopportune times.

I can’t stop watching television. I can’t stop reading books or magazines or the newspaper. There will always be reminders. It’s how I deal with these reminders is how my life will turn out.

I have a lot of nightmares. I still do. In the beginning, I used to have nightmares that I didn’t remember. Then, I would have nightmares that I would remember snippets of. Then the nightmares would wake me up and I would remember the parts from just before I had awakened. Now when I awaken from my nightmares, I remember the entire episodes. And they’re not pretty. I still awaken sitting up, clutching my head, breathing hard, my dogs surrounding me. It sucks. My dogs look at me to check if I’m ok, and they stare at me as they watch me settle back down. Animals are sensitive to their owners. They’re protective. Which is good.

But still, in dealing with all that has gone on, there aren’t too many that truly understand. Actually, there are so few that understand, I rarely bother to talk about my past.

I’ve come across some people that believe there are some women that use the term domestic abuse as a way to escape a life they didn’t want. That they really didn’t have it that bad. These people truly believe domestic abuse isn’t a viable, living, breathing animal. Their belief is that it’s something a woman uses as an excuse to move to a new area and begin a new life. That’s simply absurd to think that way. Obviously, they’ve never been in a situation where they’ve been threatened so severely.

Others believe that stories of domestic abuse are fabricated. That such things actually never happen. There is a current train of thought that if one partner is charged in a domestic abuse complaint, then the other partner must be charged. I don’t understand this way of thinking by police departments. Obviously each case is different, but each response to a domestic abuse complaint does not warrant each partner being charged. Facts must be collected without prior beliefs before any charges can be pressed.

When it’s all done, when the victim manages to escape, to move away, to leave and begin a new life, it’s still never over. The victim still has their memories. They still have the torn shreds of their existence that they have to put back together somehow to create a new life. And when they look around them, and try to see value in the lives around them, it isn’t easy. When they see others treated unfairly, when they see the authorities doing the same injustices to other women as were done to them and more, it only serves to push them deeper into their own abyss. When does it all end?

When people around them talk about abuse as if it’s a buzz word, it only serves to lessen the impact of the trauma surrounding actual abuse. Others begin to think of domestic abuse in a lesser light and dismiss it, unless it involves their world or the unthinkable-death. Anything else concerning it could be hyperbole, an exaggeration by a woman who is looking for attention, and the entire matter becomes dismissed. When will our society realize abuse victims do not exaggerate the horrid ill-treatment that their partners inflicted upon them behind closed doors? They have nothing to gain by reporting this treatment in many of the instances. At times, they are putting their own lives on the line. Why do I say they have nothing to gain? They take a chance of repercussive attacks by their partner. They take a chance of their police department not believing them. They take a chance of being vilified by the very people that they should be trusting and going to for help and support. The chance of the victim gaining something from reporting the abuse is simply time away from the abuser. Time when she may be able to get away. And that’s only if the authorities take the abuser away for a period of time. When does it all end?

Cases are backed up in the court systems and abusers information is not privy to the proper authorities. Some of these people are serial abusers, yet this information is not disseminated to the proper channels so judges can make proper decisions. When will this type of backlog be cleaned up and when does it all end?

Real life is not tv. What people watch on their flat-screens at home does not happen in America. At least as far as the judicial system, as far as questioning of suspects, and wrapping up a case in an hour. When you see police departments become aware of an abusers past in a television program, and the detectives talk about all of his other infractions concerning his DUI’s, or his arson’s, his history with fighting, his history with a lack of control with authority, his history of traffic violations such a serially-long list of running red lights and/or speeding constantly throughout his driving career, that should signal a red flag. Unfortunately, to the police, in their minds, depending on the individual officer, it may or may not. Some may simply write it off as the “good old boy syndrome”, or “the bad boy”. But it’s not. It’s breaking the law. Simply put, it is someone who constantly breaks the law, without any conscious desire to stay within the limit of the rules of society. This is a person who obviously sees their life as untouchable where they can do as they please to whomever or whatever they want. You know that, I know it and others that have been affected by this abuser know it. Yet, all of his infractions don’t matter when he is finally brought into court. He is only tried on the one charge that brought him there that day. Although he may be a serial abuser, it doesn’t matter. When does it all end?

As long as the authorities allow these men to behave the way they do and turn the other cheek to them, which in turn, allows these men to raise families with children who see convoluted and twisted parenting on the abusers part, this type of behavior will continue. These children will grow up to allow it. Statistically, the boys will mature into abusers and the girls will mature into women who believe there is a reason that they should be abused. Children accept what they have been raised to accept. Obviously, this is a blanket statement, and not all of these children will grow up to be this way. Some will be able to break the ties that bind them and become functioning adults that live within the confines of our society. They will be damaged tho from what they have seen. Is it fair to them that the authorities have allowed this behavior to perpetuate in their homes? When does it all end?

It’s time for legislators to enact stronger laws that truly penalize abusers. It’s time for our governments to create real programs that place abusers in programs that attempt to re-habilitate them. It’s time that our government support programs for women and children that have been victims of abusers. It’s time for our government to create programs for these children to understand they are victims, too. And it’s time for legislators to make police departments finally understand what domestic abuse truly is about and force them to follow laws in a standard procedure through federal guidelines strictly or they themselves will fined.

There is so much work to be done. Attitudes need to be changed across the board. Fear needs to be taken out of the equation. It can only be taken out if victims know that authorities will be supportive and help them in the best way they can. Victims are being frightened on a daily basis in the most torturous, horrific ways that people can not even imagine. Why must  police departments frighten them even more and not offer them sanctuary from their captors?

Society won’t believe victims either if the victims aren’t privy to the proper help of if the abusers aren’t punished. After all, if a story is told about abuses being carried out, and yet the abuser goes free, how can someone understand that the story is true?

Only in America this happens. The land of the free. Where serial abusers go free to run wild and continue their rampages. Continuing their pillaging of human souls, their deprivation of women, their violent acts against human bodies that may or may not be caught or land them a few months in jail. It’s only when the abuser steps over the line and kills their target, then perhaps, depending on their financial resources, will they spend more time in jail. And while the abusers continue their acts with glee, the victims attempt to report them to their local authorities. And they are grilled to the bone about the how’s and why’s and are you sure he did this and what did you do to provoke him to do this questions while the abuser again goes free to contemplate his next action. Yet the abuser is never questioned in this fashion. He is asked, “Did you do this?”  And this is what children of America see. The officer grilling the mother nastily with disdain, while the household cowers in fear, waiting for the next attack. That’s not protection. That’s another attack. When does it all end?

Teach everyone you can about domestic abuse. Teach your children that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Teach them that there is hope. Stand up for your rights. Be firm about your beliefs. Be passionate  and strong. Carry on and know that you are a good person. Fight back. Learn the appropriate laws and use them as necessary.

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.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Bumps In The Night…)

Waiting to hear my name called was hard as hell. I felt confident. I felt secure with my knowledge in my hands. I had procured my documentation and delivered it beforehand to the courts.

My local police department had previously requested that I ask my county court system to issue another Protection From Abuse Order against Daniel. Too many oddball things were going on around my home that couldn’t be attributed to local vandals. I live in a sleepy town that pulls up the sidewalks at 8 p.m. anyway. What was happening reeked with his signature. And it was for these reasons that they wanted me to get the PFA.  Their reasoning was if I had one in place, it might keep him away and if it didn’t, they would have ammunition to hold him if they apprehended him.

In the past, Daniel would always break in at a certain time during the middle of the night. Attribute it to his OCD, or just to his quirks, I could count on him coming around at precisely a certain time. One night, I was lying in bed awake, as usual, the dogs asleep on the floor. I lived in a two-story home. I had an old wheelbarrow set up against the kitchen window, which was the only accessible area to break in.

Suddenly, I heard this scraping noise against the siding of the house and aluminum. I knew it was the wheelbarrow being moved. One of my dogs immediately awakened and ran down the stairs barking and growling madly. I stood up, turned on a light, cell phone in hand and stood at the top of the stairs. My dog raced back up the stairs with her hackles raised, still growling incessantly. I turned on more lights. As my luck would have it, suddenly I heard police sirens nearby. I hadn’t called the police. They just happened to have a call near me. Which, in turn, frightened my intruder away.

The intruder also had broken the storm window lock. They had to do this to open the window to enter my home. If they had gained access, my dogs would have also gained access to them. And of course, police response time is exceedingly quick in my town. So far, what I am describing sounds like a typical intrusion. Read on.

I waited until dawn to look out. When I looked out my bedroom window, which overlooks the same kitchen window, laying out on my grass in the middle of my yard was my welcome mat. It was facing up staring at me. My welcome mat that belongs in front of my storm door in front of my home that says “Welcome”.  It had been taken from my door and placed out in the middle of  the back yard now directly facing my bedroom window deliberately for me to see. The wheelbarrow was moved and the storm window was broken. I called the police and reported the situation.

The intrusive person came back again the next night. But silently. And quickly enough to get in and out of my yard for no one to see them do what they did until a friend and I walked my dogs the following day after that. As I was about to let my dogs walk into my yard ahead of me, I always keep an eye on the ground, since I’ve never trusted Daniel for fear of my pets being poisoned or hurt again. This time there was a plate of glass dug into the ground, standing straight up. It was about two feet by two feet. Just standing straight up in the ground. When I enter my back yard, I walk up some concrete stairs to it, and that’s exactly where this plate of glass had been set. Had I allowed my dogs free rein and let them loose, they would have run their snouts directly into the glass and shattered it.  Their faces would have been a bloody mess. We were horrified.

Again, a return call from the police department. This time, the Sergeant arrived. He took one look at the glass dug into my yard, looked up at my roof, back at the glass, and said, “That didn’t fall off the roof. You had the attempted break-in the other night. That was left for your dogs.” I was astounded that he actually said that to me. When I called this in, I just reported vandalism.  This Sergeant put together the eeriness of the situation. He was disgusted that someone would attempt to hurt animals. He realized that if someone wanted to hurt me they could have left a plate of glass lying face down so I would slip. This was an outward display left to show me a sign.

He took the report and left with his assurances. I felt comfortable knowing that my police Sergeant had an understanding of a disheveled mind.

I have screen doors on both of my entrances. I keep my doors locked. It’s a habit. Not from Daniel, but from childhood. It’s how I grew up. I grew up in a city. That’s how we lived. We always locked our doors. I used to put a wreath on my front door. Used to.

Until someone punched in my screen door at the base and reached up inside to tear down the wreath on my main door. On the second anniversary of the week-end they attempted to break in. My dogs bark when they hear someone, of course. It doesn’t take a person long to cut a piece of a screen door, punch a large hole in the base of it to destroy the bottom, reach in and tear down a wreath. It wrecks the screen. It looks nasty afterwards. And since I tie my wreaths to the hook, they couldn’t rip the entire wreath down. They tried. It was in pieces. The quick job they attempted just didn’t happen.

There’s also the my dog’s leashes that I have out in my yard. In the nice weather I sit out back with them. I never tie them out alone. As a matter of fact, before they’re tied out, I make a sweep of the yard. You can see where this is going. We sit and they have very long leads to enjoy the warm weather.  Except for one time we went out back. My larger dog’s lead wasn’t as large as usual. It was cut into pieces. Four pieces. And left in a pile. She could no longer use that tie-out. I imagine the symbolism had been targeted at my larger dog because it was her lead. The threat was to her.

One of my male friends and I were out one day when his cell phone rang. A male voice asked for me. A male voice he didn’t know. On his personal cell phone number. And they asked for me in my nickname. My friend knew of my childhood nickname and this story. His eyes signaled mine and he leaned in to me with his cell phone. He played along on the phone and said I wasn’t there but tried to keep the man on the phone. He managed to for a short bit but not enough for me to hear the voice well enough. We were driving and it was noisy. The date of the phone call? The first anniversary month I moved into my home.

How do phones tie in? Daniel’s tapped both my cell and home phones previously. When I lived on Chelsea, he had the assistance of his buddy Michael who worked for Verizon. I had found the new wires tapped into my home and reported it to Verizon. He managed attempts to tap into three of my cell phone carriers, all reported and verified by the companies. I once found audio recordings on my cell phone that I didn’t recognize. When I played them I realized they were recordings that he had made of my personal conversations with other male friends and then placed snippets of them on my phone.

I’ve had pictures left in envelopes for me. Cut-up pictures that I later put back together as if they were jig-saw puzzles. They turned out to be photos of Daniel’s deceased mother’s pets. Do I report this to my police? Yes. My children insist that I do. They feel it’s important I keep a record of all this activity. So do I.  It’s creepy. It’s bizarre. I know it’s the thinking of a fragmented mind.

How do I know? Because he used to tell me stories. His stories.  Of his former life before me. I know how he thinks. It’s chilling. I’ve heard too many bumps in the night that turned out to be Daniel breaking into my home.

Too many police officers have accosted him near my home with his excuse “I’m just driving home from a party.”, and they’ve had to let him go. It’s the law in America. Even at 4 a.m., on a side street directly behind my home, no matter how coincidental, there is nothing a police officer can do if they catch him outside the perimeters of a PFA.  I cannot say how many officers have repeated this to me, to keep calling whenever there is suspicious activity. They will keep attempting to apprehend him. They want to catch him.

Too many violations have occurred. Too many violations of the mind, the spirit, and the soul. Not only do I want it to stop, everyone wants it to stop. My family, my friends, law enforcement. He is a psychopath. I live my life without daily thoughts of him. I have better things to do. I have moved on to a better life and have built myself a new platform on which to stand again. His words of his never being happy until I was devastated and ” living without a roof over my head penniless” are not going to happen. In just a few years I have created a home again from nothing. I am not giving this up.

All I could do was appeal to a judge that I have suspicious activity that is bizarre and is documented around my home. I could tell the judge my history from the time Daniel put a butcher knife to my neck to the present and why I feel he is a danger to me. I had presented docket numbers and police records before in the court paperwork. I had my daughter with me as a witness and if need be, as one schooled in the behaviors of psychopaths. The idea was simply to get a PFA so if he was caught by the police harassing me, stalking me, damaging my property, he could be picked up and let the courts decide what to do with him at that present time.

The secretary called our names. We all walked to the front.

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.