Sexual Harassment-Take Down Predators

So in talking about sexual harassment in the workplace, I wanted to talk about the mind sets of women. Women that should know better. Women that accept men talking down to them which in turn, lays a foundation for the acceptance of sexual harassment.

Recently, I had lunch with a woman who was retired from a job as a life-long secretary in New York City. She was an efficient worker, and had worked for professionals in a field for many years. She was good at her job and enjoyed it. She was very pleasant and a knowledgable woman. Except for the idea that women “had their place”.

She told me this story of acquiring her last position. Her new boss was deemed difficult and had acquired many secretaries before her. She was determined to stay with this man, because the money was good and she said, she didn’t think he was all that bad. So I questioned her, “What was considered so bad about him that so many others left after a few weeks? After all, if he couldn’t keep other secretaries, there had to be something about him that was wrong/harassing/too demanding in the workplace…?”

She went on to tell me that he was a boisterous man, and could be rather loud at times, but that didn’t bother her. And then the bomb hit. She said, “Well, you know, he would always call me honey, or dear, or sweetheart. But I didn’t mind. I considered it a name of affection. After all, he was my Boss.” And there you have it. He. Was. My. Boss.

So I asked her, “What if you called him, honey, or dear, or sweetheart?” Her eyes opened up to the size of saucers. She gasped, literally. “Oh my god, no!” she said. “I never could. He was my boss! That was not my place!” I just looked at her with amusement. “But it was his place to call you those terms of endearment? You have a real name.” She was looking at me as if I was the one making a mountain out of a molehill. “What’s the big deal?” she asked. “He didn’t mean anything. That’s what he called the women in the office. They were only secretaries. He was the boss.”  There it was again. He. Was. The. Boss. Giving him the right to demoralize anyone beneath him simply because of his title.

“But did he call the men in the office by anything but their real names?” I asked. “Oh no, always their real names.” she replied succintly. End of that question. As if I was ignorant for even asking the question in the first place.

No matter what I said, how I said it or why I tried to explain that it was wrong for this boss to call her and other women “dear, honey or sweetheart” instead of their real names, she just didn’t get it. Nothing I said could penetrate her armor.

When I look at women that support Trump, even though he has treated women demeaningly,  has been caught on tape talking about women in lewd and lascivious ways including women that have spoken out about his fondling and kissing them against their wills, I cannot understand their admiration of this man and his lack of morals. A predator is a predator. They do not change their coats. They cannot change.

I find this type of acceptance of men that push women down and negate them fully unacceptable. It only encourages them further. Years ago, I felt that surely by this time, our world would have changed. It has not. And apparently, with women still supporting these types of predators, it is not going to change in the near future. This is a deplorable situation for the young women of tomorrow.

I will say this again. You are your own person. You do not have to submit to a predator’s will. You do not have to be their fantasy. If you do, you are allowing them to continue their fantasy at your own expense. And with that comes the degradation of your own character. Stand up for yourself. Be strong and fight back. Take down predators one by one. We should not allow them in our world. If not for yourself, for your daughters, for your granddaughters. No means No.

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.

Sexual Harassment-Circa 1977

Bill O’Reilly’s exit from Fox has me thinking of sexual harassment in the workplace and how it has not changed in the last forty decades. Except for money. I have to think that the almighty dollar bill has something to do with people coming forward to talk about their experiences with high-profile people and their discomfort with what they say has been said to them. Forgive me if I sound disgruntled, or jealous, because I’m not at all. I admire Wendy Walsh for not asking for money and simply telling her story. That’s what this should be all about.

This is about sexual harassment and how it makes a woman feel. It is about disempowering a woman, about taking your stature, your power in the workplace and using it against an employee. It is about using your lack of morals and grinding them against who you suppose might be vulnerable and might not fight back. That’s the key. It’s a sickness that the perpetrator cannot stop. They calculatedly pick people who they think might not turn around and tell them they’re dicks and go back to Human Resources or whomever is at the head of the office. It just takes one person to speak up. In Bill O’Reilly’s case it only took one until the cup spilled over and then the story broke. Fox News had been paying how many women to keep their stories quiet. But this type of sexual harassment has been going on forever and women have not been talking about it. I did. Back in 1977. Here’s my story.

I was fresh out of college and had acquired a temp job at Dutch Boy Paints. The same day I was hired, my boss asked me if I wanted to go full-time and not permanent.  How lucky, I thought. First day in on a new job and I was being hired full-time. Little did I know of the harassment to come.

Next to my desk was another man who I’ll always remember as a gentleman. He was a few years older than I, and he came to be my protector. I have no idea why, but he took it upon himself to keep my boss away from me. He was the liason of sorts between that boss, myself and I. It was a strange situation that the boss had no idea his underling was trying to stop.

My boss was married. That didn’t stop him from inviting me out to lunch on a daily basis. I would bring in my own lunch as an excuse, but since everyone went out to lunch, I didn’t like being alone in the building. K (the protector) always went to lunch with him. They would take long lunches at fancy restaurants and clubs. K would tell me how during the lunches the boss would talk about me. He didn’t like it as much as I didn’t. I had only been married about 6 months at the time.

On occasion, when K would invite me to lunch, I would go. The boss would interject himself along, but I would pay my own way. I would be careful not to sit next to him. K would always watch him. The boss would drink heavily during his lunches too, which would antagonize him to harass me more. I always stood my ground. I threatened to tell his wife when she called. He would threaten to fire me. I would say I would go to HR with this conversation. I was 22 years old on my first job that I knew I was not going to stay in.

At times, the boss would go to a bar across the street from the plant and extend his lunch/drinking hours. He would call my line and beg me to come to the bar. Since I had to answer my phone at the office, I would have no idea it was him. I would hang up once I knew it was him on the line, drunk and his tirades. K called one time. He told me to pack my things and go home. He said the boss was that drunk and didn’t want to tell me what he was saying, but that it wasn’t good. He said for my safety I needed to get out of there Now, and before anything happened, and he could only contain him for so long. He begged me to leave. I listened carefully to what he wasn’t telling me and I knew. I picked up my things and left before anything could happen. To this day, I always thank K for being a Protector. For knowing what was wrong.

But that wasn’t the only harassment going on at Dutch Boy Paints. As I said, I was young. I didn’t dress provocatively. As a matter of fact, I wore suits most of the time. I hated dresses. It was a plant with offices and at times, I had to go down to the industrial part, so suits were the better option.

I was delivering copy to another office one day, when a particular executive passed by me. As he did, he brushed up against me, and grabbed my derriere.  That’s the politest way to say it. Then he quickly walked away. I was stunned. What? I thought. This man just grabbed my body. Ok, I’m pissed. I wasn’t sure who he was, but if I ever saw this dude again, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but not smile, keep away, and certainly say something.

Sure enough, next time I see him, he manages to grab me again and disappear quickly. The executive does it again. Now I am Seething. I go to another woman in the office that I know who does payroll and ask her who he is to get a name. She tells me. So now I have his name and what position he holds. I have the dates he harassed me physically. I’m thinking what to do with this information. It’s 1977. Men could care less back then and women’s attitudes …. well, if you were a feminist back then you were considered a radical. I think I was always a feminist since the day I was born. I was not going to be a pincushion for this man’s hands.

Sure enough, the third time he sees me, he gropes me. And I turn to him, blocking his way, and I tell him, that’s sexual harassment, and I’m reporting you. He laughs. And walks away. Which drove my anger and determination more. I immediately went to the office of the General Manager of Dutch Boy Paints and made an appointment for the next day.

I had all of my dates ready when I went in to talk to him. I calmly explained to the GM when and how this executive sexually harassed me. I told him the workplace was not a place for this type of behavior. I told him that I was not going to stand for this. My body was my own. The GM leaned back in his leather chair, wrapped his arms around his head, smiled at me and said, “Do you really want to ruin this guy’s career? He’s a nice guy. He didn’t mean any harm. He was just being friendly. Besides, he has kids.” I’ll never forget those words and the condescending tone of the GM that day.

I looked at him levelly and with a very cold voice, I said. “He should be thinking about his own career before he places his hands on a woman in the workplace. He is a sick man who cannot keep his hands to himself. Either you bring him in here, you dictate the law to him and slap penalties on him or I will hire an attorney. The choice is yours.”  The smile left his face quite quickly and his chair snapped back into sitting position. “You’re serious?” he said. “I am.” I responded.  “I won’t wait for days, either. Today.”

The executive was suspended for 30 days from the workplace. So I was told. I did ask for proof, which I received. I also asked for a letter of apology, also received.  I also knew that my boss would get wind from this story. And that it would have an immediate impact on him. I thought that I would be able to kill two birds with one stone. Basically, I did. He started ignoring me and office life settled down. I’m sure the few other women in that plant were harassed but no one had ever stood up. It just takes one.

Be That Voice. Find your inner strength and stand up for yourself. No means no.  Never allow yourself to be a victim of someone else. The law for sexual harassment has been in place since 1964. Use it. Do not allow predators to circumvent the law and use you for their pleasure.

If you or anyone you know is a victim of sexual harassment, you may find this document helpful: https://www.eeoc.gov/eeoc/publications/fs-sex.cfm.

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.

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.

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

I own a 6 piece set of antique press-back farm chairs. They have cane seats. Over time, the caning needs strengthening. When I lived with Daniel, I had noticed that a few of the seats needed work, so I decided to send them in to an antiques dealer I knew that specialized in working with antique furniture. She and I had built a relationship over the years and I had bought many items from her antique store.

It was only the cane work that needed strengthening. None of it had loosened, it was just sagging. I had called her and described the chairs, some of which she was familiar with because I had purchased them from her. She told me to bring them in and she would take care of them. Not a problem at all.

I told Daniel to bring them to the antiques dealer showroom for repair. He packed them in the back of his truck securely and left. Or so I thought. Somewhere between my home and the antique shop, a short distance of a few miles, Daniel made a destructive decision.

Later I received a phone call from the antiques dealer. She was very distraught. She told me the repairs on the chairs would be extensive. She asked why I hadn’t described the damage more accurately. After all, she said, both of us knew each other for so long, there was no reason to hide anything.

Hide anything, I questioned. What was I hiding? I told her that the seats were sagging where the cane inserts were placed. That’s what needed to be repaired. She hemmed a bit, and seemed upset. At the time, I was confused by the phone call. I had sent antique chairs in with Daniel with seats that had only sagging cane work, and yet I was being told in a mysterious phone call that my chair repair was going to cost far more than I had anticipated, take much longer in time and somehow I felt as if I was the one being blamed for the damage to the chairs.

I should add that this happened during the time I was non-mobile, still wheel-chair bound from my motor-vehicle accident. I was not able to drive, so I could not go directly to the antique dealer to visualize for myself and see what she was talking about. I was literally stuck at home. Still a prisoner. Still a captive of the Smith family, not yet aware of what they were doing behind my back. I was to found out a few years later.

The antiques dealer did not sound very friendly as she usually did, as a matter of fact, she told me Daniel was there with her while she was talking to me. Since I was unaware at the time of what he was capable of doing, I had absolutely no idea of what really was going on at that moment in the antique dealers store. I would later found out.

It took months for me to get my chairs back. I would call and ask how the repairs were going, and was told various stories. They were back-logged, they were on vacation, etc., but never the truth at the time. Finally, about six months later, I received my chairs. One, in particular, was never fully repaired. The wood seat on it had been broken. I was upset. Daniel told me he had argued with the antiques dealer about their work, but to no avail. I later found out that was his lie.

Roughly four years later, after Daniel was out of the house, I visited this antiques dealer. I was determined to find out what had happened with my chairs. That conversation still set in mind as one that was out-of-place, as mysterious.

What she told me that day still haunts me and I don’t know why Daniel did what he did. But I do know that she was frightened by him. I understand now that she was frightened when she called me for her own reasons when he was standing in her store. I can imagine why. I don’t know the exact words he told her why the chairs were in the condition they were when he brought them in. But I do know who he said was responsible for their demise.  Which would make sense as to her hesitance in speaking with me. She was told I had a very serious anger problem and damaged/destroyed things.

At first, she was slightly hesitant to talk to me. She remembered the chairs. She, of course, remembered me. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years. I couldn’t understand why she was behaving in such a stand-offish manner. I would understand after she told me her story.

She told me he brought her chairs that were in pieces. None of them were in usable condition. Not only was the cane split apart, but there were posts broken, legs broken and damage beyond what she had ever imagined. She had been horrified. She could never imagine (me) her client asking her to repair such work.

My face, as she told me this story, was one of stone cold silence. All the pieces of the puzzle had been coming together at that point in 2006 about things Daniel and his mother Sandra had done. This was just another to add. She realized as she told me this that I had nothing to do with the breaking of the chairs. She knew at this point that I was no longer with the psychopath, that I was attempting to find clues to answer questions. Since she and I had known each other for many years, she trusted in me at that point to be honest enough to tell me what had actually happened that day years before.

She said at the time she felt powerless, frightened and somewhat intimidated with him standing there telling her to call me about the chairs. That explained her strange phone call. She really didn’t know what to say in front of him, alone in her store. She said she had felt very uncomfortable. The antiques dealer told me there was a strangeness, a coldness, a black look in his eyes. She said he seemed odd, and made the hairs on her neck stand up. But she took the chairs in for repair and did the best she could. We didn’t talk much about anything else. I could still see that discomfort and uneasiness in her eyes.

Little did she know that at that time she was staring down the eyes of a true psychopath. One that had just broken antique chairs for his own pleasure. Chairs that he had just told another he was packing securely to bring to an antique dealer to have repaired. Somewhere between the home and the antique store he had stopped off the road, and taken time to deliberately break and destroy six chairs into pieces. Then carry these pieces into her shop and calmly tell her a story about a woman she had known for years destroying the chairs. What the psychopath doesn’t realize is that their eyes give them away. When they are at the height of their episodes, their eyes take on such a coldness, such a black void, it is almost compelling to watch. Once seen it is never forgotten.

I wonder how many people who I once knew did Daniel make feel this way behind my back. It’s what these men do. It’s how they separate their prey. It’s how they keep women isolated without the women knowing it’s happening. They tell lies, they manipulate stories, they twist the truth. Those who know you are told stories of deceit to make them doubt you, to mislead them, to draw them away from you. Your friends, your acquaintances are misled, just as the original woman is, by the psychopath, who is skilled at manipulation. Whether through lies,  intimidation or outright fear tactics, the psychopath uses his skilled tactics to separate and isolate people. It’s his means of survival.

It could be your demise if you don’t realize it.

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.

Peace.

Sorceress.

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…She Must Have Stalked Me, Your Honor)

I’ve taken a break from writing this blog about Daniel. I’ve needed a much-deserved break. Writing about him, writing about his mental illness, writing about his victimization of people is a difficult task. Separating pity from detailing information is my first priority for my readers. There should never be pity, but there always should be compassion and empathy for victims and Survivors of abusers. Abusers, psychopaths, compulsive liars, sociopaths are manipulators and con artists. They will twist and turn the truth to their willing audiences. They will parrot information back to their listeners easily to make the other person their ally. It’s in their nature. It’s one of their personality traits that goes unnoticed very easily by the general public. And it’s one of the most dangerous traits that most people don’t realize is what makes them succumb to the psychopath’s will.

When I appeared in court with Daniel, my daughter accompanied me. I did not know who would accompany Daniel. My daughter, who had been in and out of the Chelsea home, had known Daniel throughout the years that I was with him, and was well qualified to speak to the judge about any concerns that I had should the judge question her as a witness. My daughter also has a degree in criminal psychology. She was my support in the court system and her opinion would have been well-versed.

Daniel brought with him apparently his current girl friend. I can only determine “current girl friend” because of her behavior when she saw me. She fawned over him in the court room, and Daniel kept backing away from her advances. When our names were called, she also followed him to the front tables and stood there. I’m not sure why, but she decided she would be present in front of the judge, although she had no bearing on this case.

My daughter later told me that this woman looked so much like I did, that the resemblance was remarkable. Her height was the same as mine, her coloring, her haircut, her hair color, even her build-she was pretty much identical to me. Other than the way I was dressed for court, my daughter said, this woman could have been me dressed in jeans, boots and a hoodie on a casual day. At the time, all I thought was that he must have the same taste in women. But there was more to her looks than I thought. There apparently was a reason she could have been my twin or my sister. I would find that out later.

The Judge asked me why I wanted a Protection From Abuse. I began to speak, barely beginning with, “Your Honor, I have had three PFA’s in the past against this man. I am now asking you to…” I was interrupted very loudly with “That’s bogus!” by Daniel. I turned to look at him. He began speaking rapidly at the judge. Daniel began telling him that I was a vindictive woman, who was angry with him, because we weren’t together any longer, and that anything that would come out of my mouth would be “bogus”.

I could begin to feel my blood racing. My eyes were opening wider and wider. I was standing no more than two feet away from this man. Now this woman he had brought began to yell at the judge, telling him that yes, indeed, I was a vindictive woman who wanted to make trouble for them. She began pointing fingers at me, and also yelling. My daughter was grasping my elbow, to steady me, and whispering to me to stay calm. The judge is listening to Daniel speak loudly and forcefully, and asking the woman who she is and why is she involved in this matter, then telling her she has no business being involved and to please leave the table area, then he turns back to Daniel and tells him to continue. Leaning on his elbows, quite enraptured with Daniel, the judge listens to him. Quite a commotion he caused, showing the judge how women can be preposterous in a situation. The judge became enamored of Daniel, and literally showed little regard for any females. It was very well organized.

Daniel planned the opening well. He interrupted me one time, caused a scene, had this woman cause a larger scene, which in turn had the judge have her removed from the area. The judge then in turn, returned to Daniel to have him explain himself, thereby excluding me from the original conversation. I’m watching this, as if it’s all in slow motion. I say to the judge, “Excuse me, your Honor, you asked me a question. May I continue?” He tells me only one can talk at a time, and motions to Daniel to resume speaking.

I am now incensed. I’m sure my face reflected this. Daniel goes on to tell the judge that he was sitting peacefully in his living room watching television when the sheriff’s officers knocked on his door. He said he had absolutely no idea what they could want from him when they served the paperwork on him. I could tell you about his string of arrests and court appearances that have continued and still continue to this day as I write this post, but they don’t have any bearing on my business with Daniel.  He conveyed to the judge that he was a parody of a man who was simply living a quiet life that was being vindicated by a woman who could not let go. What he did was reverse the tables for the judge, play him for the fool, and make me appear the despicable person. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality was coming out. Daniel was attempting to manipulate the court, the judge and the system again.

He then told the judge what I was waiting to hear. “Your Honor, I don’t even know how she knew my address to serve me with these papers. She must have stalked me.” Words that made my head flip back.

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.