Hole In The Wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another rock to step over.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

 

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…How To Keep A Psychopath Down…)

Apparently putting him in a dream-like state was the idea of a good psychiatrist. The doctors that administered the medications to Daniel while I was with  him would give him strong medicinal cocktails that made Daniel sleep a good 18 hours a day, nod in and out for the rest of the 6 hours and dribble from the corners of his mouth while he was seemingly awake. I now believe the idea behind this was to keep a psychopath down. It was a good idea and they knew it.

Why was it a good idea? Because these doctors knew what Daniel was about. They had heard his stories. They had heard my stories. They knew I was trapped in a situation that I was unable to escape  from at that time. As unbelievable as it may sound, these doctors knew I was trapped in a home because I was temporarily disabled and feverishly watched over by a woman who was just as seriously ill as her son. Even if I had left the home to go to a shelter, I would not have been accepted because of my then current medical condition. It was a no-win situation for me.

In retrospect, I see that psychiatrists and psychologists were attempting to aid me by heavily dosing Daniel. It all makes sense now. I truly believe they were protecting me. Just as some of the psychiatrists wanted to commit him to a State Hospital, others aided me in obtaining PFA’s (Protection From Abuse Order’s), others kept him locked in the psychiatric units of the local hospitals when he would commit suicide for as long as they could hope to be able to obtain orders to further commit him for longer durations.

I would imagine having Daniel as a patient was a challenge. He probably was viewed as the patient that a doctor could write abstracts on.  A patient that a doctor could talk about at seminars. Daniel was the ideal delusional patient complete with a dysfunctional childhood and a psychiatrically ill overbearing mother that was very much an overbearing presence in his everyday life. What more could a doctor ask for? Paint the picture more with a woman who somehow became involved, now disabled, constantly being rushed to the ER for sometimes unknown reasons, later suspected poisonings,  and perhaps, just perhaps this woman was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Someone needed to be helped, and doctors were looking for answers. They knew conclusively that Daniel was a diagnosed psychopath. That was a given. He had been diagnosed by a psychiatrist when he attempted to murder me and had been arrested and placed in jail. He had a background of breaking the law since the age of 18, there were police reports of prior domestic violence in a former relationship and he had been in drug-rehabilitation centers.

When I first met Daniel, I was unaware of his background. His mother kept all of it hidden from me, as he did. Slowly, his past was revealed to me, but not in everyday conversation. I became aware of his past during the times he was arrested because of his suicide attempts and the murder attempt. He would also reveal parts of his past during conversations with psychologists and psychiatrists. Since I would always be present during sessions to keep him on track, I would learn of his past digressions and of his current thoughts.

Listening to Daniel tell the doctors his stories would make me cringe inwardly. Other times, I would be astounded at his descriptions of his childhood abuses. I never knew what would pour forth from Daniel’s mouth, but I knew it would always surprise me.

When I tell you at times I wanted to run as far as I could and never look back, that is my earnest truth. If only I could back then. I believed I had no other choice. Living in a wheelchair at first from the original accident, then graduating to a walker, eventually to Canadian crutches took a total of over 6 years.  In the beginning, I had seizures up to 15 times a day. I couldn’t verbalize, but my mind could think. I was trapped in a hell that I couldn’t talk about to anyone. I was attending physical therapy and crying through it because the pain was intense, but determined.

Daniel would take me to the physical therapy hospital and wait for me. He would then drive me home, dutifully help me out of the car with my wheelchair, and help me up the stairs to the porch and into the house. As I said earlier, I would be in tears from the pain. When I first began physical therapy, because it was too painful for my body after the accident, a tens unit was used instead for relief before any attempt at using my limbs was started.

Daniel, in his twisted thinking, asked the doctor for a tens unit to use at home. He explained to the doctor that it would be beneficial to ease my pain. One was acquired for home use. However, easing my pain wasn’t Daniel’s intention. There are other uses for tens units, I found out. They aren’t what the machines are intended to be used for but Daniel used them in a sadistic manner on my body instead. I still shudder at the sight or mention of these machines and they turn my stomach.

I know he was solicitous in helping me in front of the neighbors. Very often a neighbor would come over when they would see me getting out of the car to offer their sympathy. They would tell me how amazed they were at what I was attempting to accomplish. It had taken me months just to walk the length of my porch, that is, when I finally was able to get out of my wheelchair and use my walker. Of course, they would then turn to Daniel and sympathize with him. What they didn’t know is that he was responsible for the accident that had put me in the wheelchair that they were looking at.

But the psychiatrists did. They were the ones that wanted to get Daniel away from me. They knew how seriously ill he was and the damage he was causing to me. The problem is they couldn’t physically remove me from my home and put me somewhere else. They could temporarily remove Daniel and advise me to leave the state, but in reality, with no one to aid me, I didn’t know how to do this. I felt very helpless in the physical condition I was in.

I had a home. I had pets. My adult children were in college. I felt very alone. I was being “watched” by Sandra. All I could do was plan to physically repair myself to the best of my ability and then work on rewiring my brain to create new neural pathways. I didn’t tell anyone about my plan. I knew if I did, it wouldn’t succeed.

The only person that knew was Doc Holly. She encouraged me to continue on. It is because of her that I am here today writing this story. Walking, talking, driving, doing everything I could do before the accident. It took me over 6 years to put down the Canadian crutches and walk without any aids. It took 4 years before I was able to rewire my brain and be successful in creating new pathways. Daniel and his mother had no idea I was working feverishly behind their backs, while they were constantly aiming to destroy me.

Four years later, my day of recognition was August 26, 2006 when I went to a judge and told him my story and asked for a PFA against Daniel again, for the second time. The judge approved it, and evicted Daniel from the home immediately. Although I had the PFA, it only served to antagonize the Smiths further. Now I should have been free of them, but they were concocting more troubles than I ever believed possible for me.

Now that Daniel was out of the house and under his mother’s roof, he was no longer medicated. He was in full bloom of his illness and now using drugs. And his mother was still protecting him from the police when I would report him for violating the PFA. Now Sandra felt she had to fight back because a judge had her son evicted from the home through a domestic violence PFA and she would stop at nothing to get her way.

Although before I was a prisoner in my home and held captive by these people, and now I was free, this time I was being held captive by what her money bought through lies. Gone were the pharmaceutical cocktails that the doctors had prescribed for her son the psychopath that would keep him down and out. Sandra didn’t have the mental strength and capabilities to force Daniel to take his medicines, thus encouraging her little boy to come out and play with her once more.

And together, fueled by obsessive furies, these two now started to play an even more dangerous near-deadly game in their compulsive preoccupations with me. Forced to leave the Chelsea home, Daniel’s last words to me were “I won’t stop until you’re crying on the curb, without a roof over your head, without any food to eat, and penniless.”

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…(Finding Your Inner Strength)

Color Your World, KMC, 2012.

Color Your World, KMC, 2012.

Life can be a game for some people. Take Monopoly, for instance. You pass go, collect your $200.00, and continue on your path to new conquests. Some don’t want to take stock of their inventory or build from it. They’re more interested in continuing the same circle, picking up a few cards every now and then and taking their chances. While others plot their courses carefully, build from their inventory and envision a future that can be. It’s a much slower process. It takes time. It takes patience. What is required is planning and thought.

And there could be stumbling blocks in the way of coursing your own path alone while creating your own destiny but the choice is always yours. It’s supposed to be. But what happens when a stumbling block comes across your path that is too huge for you to climb over? Too spiky for you to want to cross? Or maybe that mountain ahead is precipitous and just too pretty, so you decide to sit down for a while and take in the view. Wondering what’s in those hills. And of course, there could be trouble in those pretty little mountains you see. Your vision isn’t always as clear as the next person. As you’re stopping to appreciate the view, the next person might be stopping to decimate the very same picture. Scary thought, isn’t it?

And this is just what the psychopathic personality is doing, the antisocial personality, the borderline personality, the cluster-b personality disorder, the sociopath,the narcississtic personality,  all of the deviant personality disorders that I speak about. They lie in wait for their next victim, akin to an animal in the jungle. As you so naïvely take in the sunshine and clean air around you, they are plotting your every move, waiting for their right moment to leap and pounce when you least expect their movements.

Never envisioned a human being to behave so raw, with such animal tendencies? Why not? We are animals, by nature. We feed on the behavior of others, whether we want to admit that behavior to ourselves or not. The truth is the majority of the population behaves in a way that is acceptable to society, its norms and mores, so when we think of our behaviors based on others directives we aren’t disturbed at our own actions. We judge ourselves correctly. We don’t look in the mirror and tell ourselves that it’s OK to lie, to cheat, to steal, to harass, to stalk, to rape, to murder. Those whose brains are short-circuited, cross-wired, afflicted with psychiatric disorders simply do tell themselves it’s OK. They spend their days lying to themselves constantly about their lifestyles and behaviors. It’s all part of their personal psychological make-up. And they spend an inordinate amount of time attempting to convince you that they are right in everything they do and that you are wrong in everything you do. Their sick, twisted goal is to separate the weak from the strong. In their minds, they are the strong, and you are the weak they have preyed upon. They will separate you from your friends, your family, because in their minds, these  people represent other strengths to you. Your strengths must be demolished. They must be removed. As in the jungle, a predator will isolate an animal from the herd to capture it. As in the jungle, as in life, this sick mind will isolate you to capture you.

How do you prevent this from happening? How do you recognize the signs of capture? Those of us who are Survivors know the red flags. I honestly don’t believe any of us look for these red flags in earnest. We automatically spot them. Perhaps, in the beginning, after the rawness, after realizing what has transpired in our own fragile psyche, we do become hyper-vigilant. We are untrusting Souls, this group I label Survivors. As well we should be., Our very cores of our existence have been ripped to shreds, tossed into the air for pleasure and pain, left to bake in the hot sun waiting for scavengers to tear us to shreds again for the choices we have made.

A former post of mine starts talking about red flags and continues for a series of 6 articles on red flags of these personalities and their traits when you meet them. Here is the link to the first post:  https://sorceressofthedark.wordpress.com/2011/07/14/survivor-of-a-psychopathwith-borderline-tendencies-red-flags-to-look-for/.

Society doesn’t want to blame the manipulative, charming psychopathic personality for the damage he has done. They can’t see him for who he is and what he is immediately. They need a quick fix. They turn instead to an easier explanation, blaming what has transpired on the victim, on who they term the weaker person, the one who made the poor choices in their opinion, the person who should have seen what was happening all along. Society has absolutely no ideas of the devastation, the plotting, the manipulations that these people conjure upon their victims. They only see what they want to see and hear, leaving the victim a true victim in every sense with no recourse.

When I shut Daniel out of my home with a Judge’s Order on August 26th, 2006, little did I know I would be starting another Journey that would involve the loss of my entire financial savings, my entire estate, my future retirement plan, my friends, over 200 break-ins by him, the loss of all of my pets, the loss of my home, my clothing and nearly everything I had every owned in my entire life, multiple court appearances for offenses that I allegedly committed-offenses that were actually committed by Daniel and his Mother on my property, relocating over five times because of his obsession,  his continual stalking me and still learning that recently he had still asked a mutual friend about my whereabouts, what did I look like, etc, and dealing with the after effects of this horrendous relationship through rose-colored Post Traumatic Stress Disorder glasses.

Not all will go through the same phases. Not all will heal in the same manner. As a matter of fact, some may not be able to heal at all. Healing takes effort on your part and you must be willing to be a part of your own health. There are far too many people that repress their memories instead of bringing them to the surface for personal healing. Remember, the memories remain regardless of how many times you speak about them. The difference is when you talk about them you see them in a different light each time and you realize how strong you really are as you relate your stories.

When my son was thinking of relocating to an area I believe Daniel to be living in, I questioned him what would happen if he would run into him. My son’s response was simple and to the point, “It’s you he’s obsessed with, Mom. He never cared about any of us. We’re safe, it’s you that’s not.”

Point well taken. I don’t live in fear. I never have. Perhaps that stems from where I grew up, Perhaps it’s because I survived Daniel’s two murder attempts on me and his subsequent poisonings. I’m not sure where inner strength and courage comes from, I just know it’s there and he is not going to take it from me. I am here on this Earth to share my story with others to give them insight and hopefully more courage to leave their situations and become stronger. Because they can. They should. No one should let a sick, twisted mind overcome them with fear and trepidation.

Find your inner strength and hold on to it with all you have and don’t let go. Don’t succumb to people who are negative and will bring you down. Walk away from the negative and surround yourself with the positive. All of these words sound simple and almost greeting card like, and that’s far too simple an explanation for anyone to live a life after the ruins of a psychopath. It is much more complex than these simple words. Much more difficult to put into practice. At times you will have to walk away from family, from friends you might have known for years. You will have to learn who the negative people really are in your life. You must see people for who they are and what they bring to your table. Eventually, this gets easier. And as it gets easier, you be creating a new Journey for yourself, one that is better than you ever imagined you could ever have lived.

Begin to color your world, ever so slowly with the paints you from your artbox. Some days will still be gray, but others can be glowing with the colors of your choice.

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 Tilted Pictures.)

As these posts are difficult to write, this is perhaps the most difficult to walk through in my mind. It brings back the horror of the break-ins. It returns the validation of the stalking. That moment. The day I discovered he was back in the house for his play time.

I had been out for a short time in the afternoon. By this time, I had Thor, my beloved white german shepherd. Thor was a large dog. No, Thor was a huge dog. At seven months, he was already weighing in at 101 pounds. He was well-trained and quite playful. He followed me around wherever I went, listened obediently, knew his commands and was a huge baby.

I walked back into my home through the front door. Thor enthusiastically greeted me. As I walked through the rooms on the first level, all seemed well. I always had a habit of checking the locks on the back doors, making sure that they were still locked. They were. Then I would go up the stairs and check those rooms. Thor would happily bound alongside me.

As I started up the stairs, apprehension gripped my stomach and soul. Something was wrong. Every picture I had hanging along my stairwell was hanging just off to the side. As if someone didn’t want them hanging straight. Just pushed off by an inch or two.

I know how I hang my artwork. Straight and neat as a pin. I walked halfway up the stairs. Each hanging frame was the same. Off by an inch or two to the side. I looked to the top of the stair at the painting hanging above a Victorian bar that graced the top of the second-story landing. The painting by an uncle of mine was off , also. It hung just sideways. Staring at me, as if to say, “I’ve been here, you know….now you know…”

Daniel was obsessive-compulsive about certain things. He couldn’t stand when paintings or photos on the wall hung straight. I would watch him tilt them off to the side about an inch all the time. Eventually I became used to his disorder. There was nothing I could do about it. It was the way his brain saw objects and how they made him feel. Seeing something straight and organized made him uncomfortable.

Usually an obsessive-compulsive person wants to have order, and not chaos. In Daniel’s case, it was the opposite. He was uncomfortable with order. To him, order represented uncomfort. It represented rigid rules that brought back horrible memories. Those memories in turn brought on his racing thoughts, his psychological seizures. So without his consciously realizing this, he would walk around the house, and tilt everything on the walls till they were off-balance. Just like he is.

When I saw that top painting off-balance, I knew he had been in the home without question. I ran back downstairs to my dining room. I knew all the locks were on my doors and hadn’t been touched. I knew my windows. He couldn’t have broken into my kitchen or living room windows. They were an oddball shape and not accessible. But then again, Daniel is a chameleon.

My only hope of getting an answer was in turning to Thor, my shepherd. My highly intelligent shepherd. I looked Thor in the eyes directly and demanded of him, “Where did the man come into the house?” I repeated this to him. Thor was very intuitive and responsive to me. For those people who are dog savvey, certain breeds and/or certain owners have a special relationship. I was working with this.

My gut told me to stay in my dining room. Thor pushed me to the dining room window with his muzzle. I pushed aside the drapes and showed him the air-conditioner in the window. I said, “Thor, it’s an air-conditioner. Where did the man come into the house?” Thor pushed me again into the window. He was quite insistent on this window. I stayed there for a moment. Then I looked up at the tall window and noticed it  unlocked.

I ran through the house to the backyard with Thor to the outside of the dining room window. And Thor was absolutely correct in what he was telling me. There on the slats of the aluminum, I saw the proof. Bootprints for leverage that had been used for climbing up into the top of the window. Daniel didn’t open the window and come into the bottom of it, he climbed up and through the top of the window. Thor saw it all and reported it to me.

And all Daniel wanted to do that day to prove to me that he was there was tilt the pictures. Because he knew by tilting the pictures I would know he was in my house against the law (by the PFA), but I could do nothing against it. Was I afraid at this point? Did this discovery instill fear in me? I would imagine that was his intention. All I was feeling was anger. Intense anger. Anger with resolve that when he came back I would be ready and waiting for him.

Not to mention the idea that he managed to get past  Thor. Although I knew his tricks of getting past  dogs in households. Years earlier he had told me of his tricks when he burglarized houses. If there was a pesky dog at a residence, he would give it a steak. If the dog was one that he didn’t like, he would put poison inside the meat. I guess something stopped him from doing that. Something in his sick mind. Nothing out of goodness stopped him from killing Thor. I believe it was more of a cat-and-mouse game in not killing my pet this time. After all, if he did, all hands would point to him, although circumstantial.

So, I called the ever-ready, ever-responsive City Police Department to report Daniel’s break-in to my home. Although it was circumstantial, I had a 50-50 shot that the officer responding would be one that was well-versed in the psychological aspects of a psychopath stalker. An officer familiar with my type of situation. I was lucky. The officer listened to the story. He went around back to look at the boot print on the house from the mud by the patio. He knew I couldn’t have created the print. The foot was too large for me. The officer knew all that had gone on at the Chelsea home. His recommendation? Wait and see if he comes back tonight. And if he does, call immediately.

3:30 a.m. Phone in hand. Sit at my bedroom window. I have a full view of my entire backyard. A view of the backyard gate where it hits the garage and Daniel hops it to gain access to my property.  He always comes around at this time of the night. Right as scheduled, I see him hop  onto the gate and corner of the garage roof. I hit 911 and report that Daniel has now entered my property against my PFA. The 911 asks questions. Am I alone? Are my doors locked? Can I see him? I answer the questions, they hang up and I wait.

My bedroom window is open a few inches and unbelievably, Daniel is underneath it at the dining room window again, as he was earlier in the day. Only this time, he has brought someone with him. When I saw him hop the gate, I had left the window and made the call. I didn’t stay to watch. I didn’t realize he was letting someone else into my yard. Another woman. For what I will never know.

Earlier in the day, when I had discovered the unlocked dining room window, I had secured it. When I went upstairs for the night, I made sure all doors and windows are locked, as I usually did. As I was listening to him downstairs underneath my bedroom window, I heard a woman’s voice giggling. “Ohhhh…..she locked the window!” she giggled in a winsome voice. I was rolling my eyes to myself, thinking what the hell was he doing bringing someone like that here. “Ouch! What did you hit me for??!!” I heard next. He obviously had hit her for talking out loud and calling attention to them. She wasn’t the shiniest knife in the drawer, that was obvious. This was good, I thought. She was buying the police more time to arrive and catch him.

Next sound I heard was the sirens of the police cars. I went downstairs to answer my front door. I was hoping that one car at least had gone down my back alleyway and would be able to catch Daniel running out the back. With over 250 officers on the force, I had half of the force on my side and believing in stalkers and psychopaths. The other half thought this was some type of fantasy I made up in my mind and would call them for the hell of being  bored. Perhaps they thought I was a woman scorned.  How ignorant they could be in their thinking of my situation.

The officer at the door told me another car had gone out back first and he was waiting for a report. He asked me to describe what had happened. I did in a calm fashion. Thor was quiet. As I said, he was a disciplined dog and would stay by my side, protecting me. Many times I had to keep Thor indoors because of officers  being intimidated by his size, although he had never bitten anyone. It was just his bulk that frightened people.

Suddenly the other officer’s car came racing around Chelsea. The second officer bolted out of the car, asking me how quickly I had placed the call when I had placed Daniel in my vision. I told him immediately. I told him as soon as I had seen him hop the fence by the garage. The two officers looked disconsolately at each other. I knew he hadn’t caught him within the line of the PFA.

“I want to catch the sob already…he was 15 feet out of the line.” the officer said. “What did he say?” the other officer asked. “He said he was driving home from a party.” responded the officer. “This time he has a woman with him in the car,” the officer continued. “I took her name and information.”  The first police officer looked at me, and then at his partner. “That’s what she was telling me,” he said. “She said there was a woman’s voice outside the window but she didn’t see her.”

The officers continued to talk rather heatedly together. Thoughts were racing through my mind now. It was roughly 4:00 a.m. He had beat the odds again. Caught by the officers just fifteen feet outside of the PFA line in the alleyway behind my home, explaining quite calmly to police officers that he was on his way home from a party in the middle of a week. There was nothing they could do. They were as frustrated as I was. They were angry at the situation. They wanted him caught. They wanted him put away, locked up and the key thrown away. It couldn’t be done until they caught him within legal limits.

Both officers turned to me again, and asked, “Did you call immediately when you saw him hop the fence?” Of course I did. I wanted him caught. I wanted this to end also. I wanted Daniel in jail. Tired of this life, I wanted him to stop this harassment. No one could understand the hell of being put through this torture by him. By the police. The looks and the coldness I would receive by my neighbors. No one wanted to help me. No one wanted to get involved. This ordeal was going on for far too long and I wanted it to stop.

Told to call back again if he returned, I looked at the officer and reminded him my chances of having a “good” officer respond to my 911 call. He understood. He told me that more officers  than I realized wanted Daniel caught and locked up.  With as much pleading as possible, he literally begged me to please call if Daniel returned. I promised.

Again, I promised.

Peace.

Sorceress

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