Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Characteristics of Narcissistic Mothers by Chris (Reblog)

I could not stop reading this about children of the narcissistic personality. This is an incredible dissertation on what a narcissistic mother does to her child and how that child is disempowered. Anyone dealing with this type of personality can relate to the frustrations the human mind feels when they are in close proximity to this destructive force.

This is a piece for those to understand the hell the narcissist creates and for those that have gone through that hell and have survived a narcissist.

I found it incredibly empowering to read.

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

 

My Health Quest

The Harpy‘s Child

The page for the children of the narcissistic     http://www.narzissmus.org/eigenschaften-narzisstischer-mutter.php
 The Destructive Narcissistic Parent creates a child that only exists to be an extension of her self. It’s about secret things. It’s about body language. It’s about disapproving glances. It’s about vocal tone. It’s very intimate. And it’s very powerful. It’s part of who the child is.  -Chris Characteristics of Narcissistic Mothers 1. Everything she does is deniable. There is always a facile excuse or an explanation. Cruelties are couched in loving terms. Aggressive and hostile acts are paraded as thoughtfulness. Selfish manipulations are presented as gifts. Criticism and slander is slyly disguised as concern. She only wants what is best for you. She only wants to help you.She rarely says right out that she thinks you’re inadequate. Instead, any time that you tell her you’ve done something good…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Sorceress

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 Triad & Exposure To The Truth)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Sorceress.

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…Bad Boys…Why We Love Them & Why We Shouldn’t…)

"Hollywood Bad Boys"

“Hollywood Bad Boys”.

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

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

"Hollywood Bad Boys We Love".

“Hollywood Bad Boys We Love”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hollywood Bad Girls".

“Hollywood Bad Girls”.

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

"Hollywood Bad Girls Again.

“Hollywood Bad Girls Again”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Sorceress.

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…What Are Their Agendas?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Sorceress

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…Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD.)Part 2.

In the preceding post of “Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD”, I alluded to something horrific with the title of “Dead Kittens”. I began the post by talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and giving my readers a variety of background resources to read and cull information about PTSD so they could familiarize themselves about this relentless enigma that haunts many people.

The good psychologists, counselors, doctors and psychiatrists of today that realize PTSD afflicts women that have been in domestic situations that have been abusive in some way are walking angels in my opinion. They give credibility to those people who have suffered at the hands of psychopaths, sociopaths, narcissists, Cluster B personalities and the likes of these types of disorganized people.

I’ve spoken about who places the guilt on people in these types of relationships in a former post, called ”

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Abuse Of Power Results In Guilt For Whom?)”.

It seems many people still turn a blind eye to the truly guilty party in these relationships, blaming the victim for just being in these types of relationships. Blaming the victims, as if she or he would actually want to languish as a prisoner would in a cell . That type of thinking is not preposterous, it is ignorant. For those types of believers, that is one of  the reasons I have decided to tell my story in as much detail as I can.

Some of my stories are not very pretty. They are downright ugly. They are the workings of an evil mind called Daniel and his mother, Sandra.  If I had not lived with these two people, I would have thought this story to be the work of a good fictional writer. But they are not.

As I say often enough to people, I am here telling you this story for a reason. So others may find hope. So others may learn about psychopaths and the assorted twisted personalities I talk about. So others may realize that they too, are Survivors or can be Survivors. It is not easy remembering these events to put on paper. It is exhausting. But they are a story to tell.

On with the story of the dead kittens…

I awakened one morning quickly, sitting straight up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open, staring at my dogs who were ever faithfully watching and protecting me. Fifteen minutes later, I was able to finally begin to breathe at a normal rate and take a few deep breaths. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, brushed my damp hair back, and backed myself up against the headboard. How long will this go on? How many times will I nightmare the horrendous occurrences of time spent with Daniel and/or his mother Sandra?

This time the nightmare was about time spent after the judge had ordered him out. Daniel ate meat and I did not, so I was giving it to a friend’s son who had just moved into a new apartment with his girlfriend. My friend’s son came over to help me clean out my freezer of the meat. I figured it would be better for him to have it since he was just starting out and young in his twenties.

As we were emptying the shelves, we finally reached the top one at the back of the freezer. I saw these two bags that resembled mailing type bags stacked in the back. I knew they didn’t belong in there and suddenly my stomach lurched.

Call it premonition, say it was an educated guess, as I said, postal mailing bags didn’t belong in the freezer section of my refrigerator and I had not put them in there. The only other person with access where I wouldn’t see them putting something in there was Daniel. So many unnatural occurrences had happened already, and I just knew this was going to be one of his disgusting, twisted thoughts left for me.

Billy must have seen the look on my face and said to me that the two bags don’t belong there, do they? No, I responded, very uneasily. He said he would grab one and I could take another but don’t open them, rather, to wait. His mother had told him of my situation with Daniel so he was aware of the strange happenings in the house already.

The bags were about 11″ by 14″. We were each holding one but hadn’t opened them yet. Somehow we knew whatever was in these two bags wasn’t good. Billy peeked in his bag, and quickly grabbed mine. “You don’t need to see”, he told me as he took my bag out of my hands, “Daniel obviously wanted to leave you something to freak you out”.

I did want to see tho and asked what was in the bags. Reluctantly, Billy opened the bags for me.

Each bag contained two dead kittens, about 8 weeks old. Where Daniel got these kittens, I have no idea. He probably conned an unsuspecting person that was advertising free kittens and told them he was going to give them as a gift. Somehow he managed to collect four. Knowing that he killed them disgusts and horrifies me. The image is indelibly etched in my mind forever of Billy and I standing in the kitchen of the Chelsea Avenue home holding two manila envelopes containing 4 dead kittens that Daniel had planted in the freezer for me to later find at some point when he thought I would be alone.

I can still see those little babies, white with little flecks of black in their fur. At least that was one of them in one of the bags that Billy allowed me to see quickly before I collapsed in a chair. I’m sure my face said it all to him. How he killed them, I don’t know. But the number of animals found dead in my home was growing. Daniel had killed my parrots, decapitated a cat, and two other cats mysteriously died in his presence.

The police, of course, in their reports, listed the deaths as circumstantial, even tho another person who did not live in the household discovered them with me. Since I did not see Daniel actually put these kittens in the freezer, they were considered circumstantial evidence. Everyone who heard the story knew Daniel had killed these defenseless animals.

Upon interviewing me, my reactions were obvious to law enforcement. I was distraught, horrified and disgusted. Daniel, in comparison, had already been diagnosed a psychopath with borderline tendencies, with antisocial disorder and bipolar. He was sneaky and cunning and hard to catch. He was also usually MIA when the police would go looking for him. If found, his reactions were usually flat and emotionless as if they were practiced.

Billy, an animal lover also, took the kittens home and buried them. He was as horrified as I. We never mentioned the kittens to each other again.

What pleasure did Daniel derive in killing these defenseless animals? Where did he get them? I won’t even guess. But animal torture is an indicator in the personality traits of the psychopath and those afflicted with some of the disorders mentioned above. So that particular day, Daniel not only derived personal pleasure in killing defenseless creatures but also in mentally torturing me.

Yet the judicial system would tell me if I didn’t actually see him kill the animal, then there was nothing they could do. Circumstantial evidence. The psychopath cunningly does his pleasures for his own needs, yet slips through the cracks of our own society. These are only markers for Daniel, signatures of his. And animal abuse is one of the signatures of a psychopath.

Other signatures of a psychopath along with generalized information:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychopathy.

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…Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD)

The disorders of the mind that leave a lasting impression on others can be horrific at best. When you have spent an amount of  time with a psychopath, a sociopath, an antisocial disorganized mind, a Cluster B personality, or any of these types of personality disorders, learning about how their minds work, how they see their worlds, their interpretations of their worlds are so conversely different than the average so-named normal person, you walk away with a new-found awareness for your own surroundings and interactions with people.

I have two distinctly different absolute thoughts on what happens to a person after their intimate relationships with these people. The first thought is that you can bury your memories, forget what has happened and go on living as if you never knew that person. The human brain is an amazing organ. It will protect you in times of trauma. Knowing a person such as this, and if they have hurt you in a devastating way, the brain can protect you and tuck those horrible memories away. Never to speak of them again, the memories sit in a dark corner in the recesses of your mind, waiting to leap out should a trigger appear that clicks to awaken them.

Do not be fooled that they have gone away. They are still there. Is it best to let them out? To talk about them? To journal them? Perhaps for some, maybe not for others. Each person has their own agenda.

For others, the memories lie fresh in their mind as clear as the day they happened. No matter how much effort they put into attempting to forget, the thoughts come back to haunt them through nightmares that they don’t remember, through unclear thoughts that they can’t quite place or unsettling thoughts that appear in panic attacks out of nowhere.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is common for survivors of traumas and this does include survivors of domestic abuse situations, violent situations, psychological abuse situations and emotional abuse situations. For more information on PTSD, see:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post_traumatic_stress_disorder.

The US National Library of Medicine published an abstract entitled “Symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder in abused women in a primary care setting allowing for the idea that women also suffer from this disorder. See:  http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/9356977.

A California study, completed in 2000, about “Women, Domestic Violence and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” can be seen here: http://www.csus.edu/calst/government_affairs/reports/ffp32.pdf.

The point of studies to anyone is that there is enough concern that someone is interested in learning about the subject. This is what should be important. At one point, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was not recognized, altho it was included in the DSM-III in 1980.  When it was finally discovered to be an affliction of our soldiers returning home, many people wondered about the disorder but accepted it as a casualty of war. They simply looked at these men who would cower at the backfire of a car and nod at each other as if they knew and understood what PTSD was about suddenly. Some accepted PTSD in veterans. Some people still didn’t. They looked at these people that had been diagnosed and felt they could “get over” their problems easily or they simply felt they were acting out and being dramatic.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder then became a broader diagnosis for more people. Not only reserved for veterans of war, it became a disorder that afflicted anyone that had sustained traumas as a child, a victim of violence,  a victim of brutality, a victim of some horrendous psychological abuse that afflicted the person in an adverse way that was ongoing to the person and could not be resolved in a timely manner.

Changed in the diagnostic criteria through the years since 1980 has created much debate amongst the psychiatric community. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder has been chronicled in many different forms for centuries. The diagnosis now included children that had been molested repeatedly, bombing victims and victims of 911.

A comprehensive abstract detailing the history of opinions can be read here: http://ajp.psychiatryonline.org/article.aspx?articleid=100457. This abstract works through the thoughts and opinions of psychiatric models and their relation to PTSD. As you read through the abstracts, and it is long but interesting, remember, it is an abstract. There are still thoughts in the psychiatric field today that believe PTSD is not real. There are others that make it appear one needs to jump through psychiatric hoops of  tests to arrive at their decision before they rule out other factors to determine that a person is suffering from PTSD. Some points are valid.

I’ve been through a lot of emotional and mental upheaval with the Smith family. All that I’ve written about in this blog is factual. Nothing has been glamorized, or made to seem prettier or gorier, or given more allegorical strength to keep a reader’s interest. I am attempting to recreate what has happened to me during the years I spent with Daniel and his mother Sandra. As I do this, I tell my readers about psychiatric illness, strength, about survival and about hope.

I weave both my story and facts about mental illness so readers have an understanding of both the cause and effect. I want readers to understand the hows, the whys, the whats in as easy an interpretation as I can present to them. There are far too many women and I am positive men also, that haven’t told their story but need to feel validated, need to know they aren’t alone.  Unfortunately, fear looms too large for them to seek help outwardly. Just as my story is very real, there are many more that could be told but never will be. For those that have written to me, I thank you for sharing. Your thoughts have touched my heart.

I began talking about PTSD for a reason today. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is very real. It is a real disorder to victims of continued abuse. It is a trained eye that can see these signs in a victim more easily, that can interpret the physical signs that a Survivor of traumas exhibits at times. We can be hyper-vigilant, we can appear stressed, we can seem intense. If the other person could only open our minds to view what we are seeing on our own movie reels, they would be horrified and mortified. Some would wonder how we get through each day. I wonder the same question. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a movie that would be classified under the horror genre.

Next, Part 2 of Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD.

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