Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Attempted Murder By MVA, Butcher Knife…Part 2.)

One cold day in November, a late Saturday evening, he appeared at the bedroom door.  Daniel had formerly been growing his hair longer, past his shoulders. He had now shaven his head, completely clean. He had stripped down to just his jeans, and was in his bare feet. His eyes were as dark as the black of night on a new moon.

He stood in the doorway to the bedroom for a moment, leveled eyes with me as I lie on the bed reading, and I knew. I saw the look in those black eyes, and I knew what was about to happen. I had seen that look before, just a few months earlier.

Daniel lunged at me. He grabbed a pillow, jumped on top of me, and tried to asphyxiate me. With all my might, and whatever my adrenaline would allow me to do, I fought with all my strength. I began kicking and clawing at him. I had clogs on my feet, the type nurses wear and I was using them against him. While he was fighting to get them off of me, I managed to break free from him and off the bed.

My father was a Sheriff’s Officer. From the time I was a small girl, he had always taught me little tricks should someone try to attack me. When I was a young woman, I learned martial arts defense. It was now, these thoughts came back to me. I couldn’t scream,  non-vocal and non-verbal from the accidents.

I managed to fight Daniel off and push him away. As I recount this story I know that adrenaline pumps through a person when fear for your safety is occurring. I started to run as best I could out of the bedroom and down the second-floor hallway. He ran after me and caught up to me. He grabbed me by the neck and began to strangle me.

The hallway wasn’t very long and he had me cornered in the bathroom, the end room facing the front of the home. Three times, he had his fingers and hands around my neck. Three times, I remembered to put my fingers between his. But he did have me down on the floor. This was a fight for my life.

When I managed to get up again, and started to move away from him, he caught me. He threw me against a solid oak door that led to the attic in the home. I hit my head, and started to slide down. I saw stars for the first time in my life. I knew I needed to focus. But here was the key to how I did manage to focus. Daniel spit on me as I slid to the floor.

He spit on me. Where I grew up, spitting on someone is the ultimate insult. For some reason, altho I knew he was trying to kill me, that he spit on me was humiliating and angering me. He then turned and ran down the stairs. I sat there for a moment, and remembered I needed to focus.

I stood up shakily, thought about the phone downstairs, and went quickly down the flight of stairs. As I picked up the phone, I hit 911. Luckily, in this county, 911 patches into the home address from where the call is made on a landline. I managed to mumble that a man is trying to murder me. As soon as I said that, Daniel grabbed me from behind, and dragged me into the kitchen. I held the portable phone but Daniel had no idea that I was holding it.

He had me around the waist, and in his right hand brandished a butcher knife. He held it to my neck and asked me if I wanted it to my neck or to my abdomen. I had brought the phone with me, and placed it down on the table as he was dragging me into the kitchen. I wanted 911 to hear my death recorded. That’s what I thought was going to happen.

There’s more to what happened in my kitchen that late November night as Daniel held me by my waist with his left arm and brandished a butcher knife in his right hand against my neck. I knew I needed to convey to 911 that an emergency was at hand and Daniel was not of sound mind. 911 also needed to know that Daniel had weapons and he had used them in his attacks on me.

My mind was racing and I’m sure this only took seconds but I yelled to Daniel, “Where did you get that butcher knife?” He answered back loudly, still holding me around the waist, with the butcher knife at neck height, “I got this butcher knife to mother-fucking kill you…”. That’s what I had hoped he would answer. I prayed that 911 heard what Daniel was screaming in my ears. All I could think about were my three children and I wanted them to know  that if Daniel murdered me he was the one responsible and how he did it. I needed him to admit his intent for 911 if I was going to die.

I knew if he answered that one comment perhaps I could say one more and distract him. At this point, in this position, a person will say and try anything to save their lives. This is what I said to him. “Who is going to clean my blood from our white kitchen floor? Your Mother?”  From the back of my mind I was able to focus and I used my resources to send the knife flying one way, have his left arm open to release me and have his body semi-slump all at the same time.

I flew around the table, grabbed the phone and headed for the front of the house. The 911 operator was still on the line. He asked me if I was ok. I told them Daniel now was holding a belt and he was attempting to strangle me with it. The operator told me there were five patrol cars out in front of my home, the officers were about to break in and he was letting them know I was at the front door attempting to get out now.

The rest seems surrealistic to me as the front door opened and I seemed to be lifted out and taken to safety by an officer. The lights of the patrol cars were focused on the front of the porch and the house was now brightly lit. Officers were in position with guns ready. Daniel appeared at the door of the home, saw the officers, the cars, the guns pointed, and dropped the belt. He raised his hands up in the air and said, “Arrest me…I’m trying to kill my wife.” He was never married to me. He was delusional in his thought process.

I’m here today. 911 sent officers speeding to my home. They did break in. Daniel,arrested on straight $30,000 bail, did attempt suicide in jail that night. He spent 5 months in jail,  his mother hired an attorney, Daniel was released with this sentence: time spent, an anger management course and 364 days of probation.

The day he was released, when his victim should have been notified ahead of time, the warden called me after Daniel was released, apologizing, saying he come into work and didn’t know Daniel had been released earlier. I found out just as Daniel and his mother were walking up the flight of stairs to my bedroom. Sandra had kept a key to my home.

Life with the psychopath and his mother. The mother that always thought her son was perfect. That her son could do no wrong.  I know she brought him back into my home after his release from prison to torment me. She didn’t want him in her home.  Now, she knew what he was capable of performing.

He never should have been allowed back into my life. Without being able to speak, without being able to verbalize fully my rights should have been guarded more carefully by the law. But as a victim, they weren’t.

Very few were schooled in Daniel’s psychotic behaviours back then. The prison psychiatrist accurately diagnosed him as a psychopath. But Sandra and her son had originally eluded me. They fooled the neighbors. They fooled all those around them. It’s what people with these illnesses do. It was only Sandra Smith’s word against mine. And my word wasn’t there then. It was only hers and his.

And then my own personal prison-time began with Daniel and his mother.

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 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…Survivors…Fodder, Challenges Or Newly Educated Fireballs?)

Survivors. Are we hypervigilant fodder for psychopaths and their disillusioned friends? Do we stand out as our own brand of red flags for the mentally disillusioned? Or are we stronger and simply more aware than the average person chooses to be in today’s society?

We didn’t choose the paths that we are on today. Those labyrinths were chosen for us by the one that also attempted to control and destroy our lives. I deliberately use the word attempt. Why? Because in the beginning, a psychopath can only attempt to begin to control his victim before he gains control. He chooses his victim wisely, and his victim also has the ability, within reason, to choose her destiny.

But does she, really, when we weigh all the factors? Most people are not looking to not trust others when they actively meet another person. It’s natural human nature. We want to trust other people. We want to believe in the next person. We want to believe that there is good in the people that we meet. We don’t want to believe the  people we meet harbor dark thoughts about us that are preconceived and actually have nothing to do with us.

For the uninitiated into the world of psychopaths, sociopaths , anti-social personalities, Cluster-B personality disorders, and similar disorders, if you have never lived or been in close, intimate contact with one of them, you probably continue in your life never thinking about these types of people. And why should you? That’s a good thought process. It’s refreshing. It’s clean.

You probably come across them on TV or if you are a fan of authors that write fiction that deals with their types of personalities. But your thoughts always bring you to the same conclusion: never me, so why must I live a life being concerned that I might run into of one of these people? These situations only happen on TV and in books. It’s all fiction from the minds of great writers. They get paid to  create these stories. But you should never think this way.

Why? Because they aren’t the dark looking monsters that television and literature that our local bookstores give you the impression they are. And in turn, the same TV programs or books that you read also tell you that the victims of these people are now either a) suffering so horribly they can’t find employment or meaning in their lives; b) their lives have been so traumatized they look like walking zombies so of course you can pick them out from the crowd; c) they obsess on the crimes that have been committed to them regularly which in turn, makes them hypervigilant and they have lost touch with reality sans their own psychopath, sociopath,etc; d) they will never be able to have relationships again because of the horrific acts they were perpetrated upon them or e) they are lost souls to be pitied for what has happened to them. If you believe what television and fictional stories tell you, then you live in a fairy-tale world. And the above about Survivors are fairy-tales and not true at all.

When we meet someone for the first time, we believe we are meeting another human being on equal footing. It is inherent in our natural beliefs and upbringing that we bring to the table normal thoughts about ourselves and towards the other person. We naturally want to be open, somewhat free about ourselves and have the encouragement to explore a new relationship with happiness and delight. That would be considered normal, average, standard and regular behavior. Taking away those that have ulterior motives simply for sex, we begin on small paths to new friendships that might lead to stronger personal one-on-one relationships. At least that’s what we think. It’s not always what’s happening in the mind of the disillusioned person, the psychopath.

So in your daily activity of looking at new friendships, there are two undercurrents that you should be aware about that are at work. When there are two people involved, there are two mental states of mind that will be working to decipher each other. The key factor is to decide if the other is honest, trustworthy and reliable. How do we do this? How do we look at others easily while not seeming to be people who are considered untrusting and hypervigliant about relationships?

How do we not become victims again? And how do we not become targets of psychopaths who believe they can take down a Survivor again as a challenge? These are all very real questions and thoughts that occur to people who have been in traumatic relationships. These questions not only occur to Survivors but they happen in their lives.

Once a life is dramatically changed by a traumatic event, a pattern emerges that is set in place for that person. Their life changes forever. They cannot go back to the person they were before the event that changed them. But of course, this is a sequence that happens for everyday people. Naturally occurring events change and alter your life and you continue down pathways. What are the differences between these people?

When a traumatic event occurs it affects the mind and its perception of similar events. When traumatic events occur over a more lengthier time, then the human mind develops more symptoms. It sees more triggers and becomes more concentrated in its observance of its surroundings. Instead of easily enjoying simple pleasures, we begin to pick apart what life brings us and looks for similar instances to the former traumas that have befallen us. We are trying to protect ourselves. We are attempting to wrap ourselves in our own warm blankets of protection. Our minds have internal protective mechanisms for shelter against future traumatic attacks.

Should you decide to go to any type of counseling for your PTSD that was induced by a psychopath, sociopath, a borderline, a Cluster-B, etc., be exceedingly careful in whom you choose. Although health care professionals will tell you they are able to discuss PTSD about domestic abuse, that doesn’t mean they have actually dealt with these matters in their office or personally with others. always ask and use specific questions should you decide to want counseling. Interview the psychologist/psychiatrist with your questions first before they do an intake on you. Be prepared and comfortable with what you want to talk about. Be honest. Again, Survivors are still vulnerable. Even tho healthcare professionals must follow laws, they also realize your vulnerability. Be strong in your convictions about what has been done to you,what you want to discuss, and the limits of how you wish to discuss your story. A good idea is to visit your local women’s shelter for advice also.

Unfortunately, the media has given more time to criminals, psychopaths,etc., than they do the Survivors and victims. Because of the twisted fascination with the “who, what, why and how” of the criminal, the Survivor is given far less impact and time to show what happens in the time periods afterwards.

This is why it is so important to tell your success story as a Survivor to as many as you can in a positive way. I have a blog contact listed in every post for my readers if you are not comfortable to write your own story so you may contact me to tell me your story.

Our world needs to know that we are alive and bursting with energy again. That we are ready to take on the world, to create, to learn, to educate, to live. We are not wallowing in self-pity. We are not walking zombies that stand in unemployment lines. Simply because we write about our experiences does not mean we are obsessed about what has happened to us. It means we want to educate others so they, in turn, will learn and educate themselves about these types of personalities. It’s called sharing and caring. We do have relationships again, however, the key to our new relationships is how to choose the right partner. A partner that is free from games and sick, twisted, mind games. We aren’t lost souls at all, quite the contrary. We have meaning in our lives. Perhaps more meaning than ever before and without a doubt, more meaning than the average person. We have experiences to share and we have the ability and knowledge to do this.

So are we new fodder and sitting ducks for psychopaths as Survivors? No, not at all.  We now are brimming with a new-found knowledge that automatically kicks in when one them crosses our path. We see those red flags blowing right in front of their faces. His words aren’t sounding so sweet when they pour out of his mouth. They actually sound ridiculous now when you hear them .

When a person tells you “I love you…you’re the soul mate I’ve been looking for and never found…will you marry me…today?” just a week or two after you’ve met him? I hope you know the answer as to whom you’re talking to and what type of person he is. Always remember you’re worth waiting for in time. Don’t let someone tell you to hurry, instead spend your life on your time, as you feel it should be spent. Be comfortable in everything you do. If it feels right? It probably is. Time will tell you whether it is.

Only you can discern the real from the fake. Only you can obsess about your past and decide to go on. Only you can decide what to bring with you from your memories that will teach you  stronger convictions and help you educate others. Memories do intrude upon you at the most inopportune times, and you cannot stop them. That’s how our brains work. But you can take those memories and choose where to store them.

Another blogger from WordPress tells her story of success of growth and survival from these types of personality disorders here:  The Void Behind the Narcissist’s Mask.  Proof of  Survivors telling their stories so others will learn as they grow stronger each day.

Our realizations become luminous centers within us when we face the demons that once tried to thwart us, entrap us and bring us down. That’s when we become the fireballs we are now.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

 

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…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…Meeting Sandra)

This wasn’t the first time Sandra was full of grandiose stories. Her son, Daniel, was quite hesitant to have me meet her in the beginning of our relationship. He would say he needed to stop at his parents’ home, but leave me in the car. I told him that was ridiculous, and that I was interested in meeting this woman he called Mother. I now rue that day.

He told me the meeting needed to be arranged, and that his mother was tough. No tougher than I could be, I thought at the time. I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into. Daniel had no idea what his psychiatric problems were and neither did his mother. Those with severe psychiatric problems often are unaware of their behaviors and their impact on others.

Daniel’s father had an idea his son was different in ways he couldn’t understand but was attempting to rationalize in a simple way when Daniel was young. Lester knew Daniel had difficulty in elementary school and would visit his teachers to try to figure ways to help his son, he had told me. Before dsylexia was fully explained and explored in the school systems, many teachers had no idea how to cope with students struggling with this problem.

Lester once told me he knew his son couldn’t read. He felt if he had Daniel re-write stories he might be able to learn to read better. At the time, this seemed a gentler approach than how Sandra  felt her approach to teaching Daniel to read would work. She would sit at the kitchen table with him attempting to teach him at an early age when he couldn’t read words back to her, if he couldn’t perform to her standards she would grab his head and slam it against the kitchen wall, she told me. She said “knocking some sense into him might get him to read, but it never did”. I can say both ways never taught the man to read properly.

Unchecked dysfunctional patterns in households often went unnoticed back then circa 1960’s. If it was noticed, not many decent programs were in place that could help children either. Daniel was in a local Boy’s Club in his city as a child and ironically, one of the men that volunteered at the Boy’s Club later went on to see Daniel as a defendant in a judicial position in the court system. Again, falling through the cracks seemed to be Daniel’s future from a very early start in life.

His parents lived in a late 1950’s cape cod style home with 3 small bedrooms. Furnished on a blue collar workingman’s salary, it was clean and well-kept. The day that Daniel had his mother and I meet for the first time he wanted to make sure that what I would be wearing, in his eyes, what his mother called  “appropriate clothing”.

For anyone that knows me, I dress the way I want, anywhere I want, in the style I want. Pretty much since high school, I have adopted my own style, not necessarily adhering to trends, but rather, adhering to my own eclectic taste. Out of an admiration for the classics, I had grown to appreciate vintage clothing. My aunts had kept most of their clothing in pristine condition in the attic of the home I grew up in and I would scour the racks for pieces to wear from the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s throughout high school and college. My attic was my own personal thrift shop, so to speak, full of well-made, costly clothing and accessories that hung wrapped in garment bags on racks. This had set my personal style from early on.

When Daniel and I first met, I owned a store that amongst other items, sold vintage clothing that dated from into the 1800’s and some new clothing that I would acquire from trade shows at Jacob Javits from New York City every few weeks. I adored fashion and the eccentricity that went with it since I was a teen-ager. Having him tell me to dress in a certain way or to modify my style to meet his mother seemed controlling to me and I was not going to abide to his whims. Apparently, his mother still frightened him in his decisions, I thought. An apparent Momma’s boy, perhaps?

The relationship was still in its beginning stages, and I had no idea what to expect. I hadn’t met Daniel on the internet, I had met him in person. Our relationship and how it was to evolve was based on actual person-to-person interaction, instead of texting and internet messaging as is commonplace today.

Interesting personalities, these psychopaths are. As we try to envision their childhood, and pick it apart, we look for pieces that might fit a puzzle that tells us something went horribly wrong in their environment. We want answers. The scientific mind knows the possibilities that their brain lobes can be damaged.

There have been suggestions that damage to the frontal lobes and behavior in psychopathic individuals is remarkably consistent. See:  http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/authored_newsitem.cws_home/companynews05_01511.   A more concise, detailed with images and opinions conversation on psychopathy and frontal lobe damage can be found here:  http://www.cerebromente.org.br/n07/doencas/disease_i.htm.

Then there are the environmental factors that psychiatrists and others look into when picking apart the background of these disorganized people. What went wrong in their upbringing? What horrible parent-child interactions went on that might have encouraged this child to grow dark thoughts into even darker, twisted immoral , illegal ideas?

After living with Daniel, after hearing his stories, his own personal nightmares and after listening to Sandra’s immoral interpretations of life, I can tell you that Daniel’s future as an adult was never on solid ground, regardless of whether his brain was damaged or not. His environmental background was not solid, I would soon find out through both first-hand stories of his parents and witnessing the visual impact of the behavior of this mother-son relationship over the years that were to follow.

The stories that he told me of his childhood were typically abusive, typically dysfunctional and of a child that seemed to be encouraged by one parent (Lester) and always thwarted by his other parent (Sandra). As time progresses through chapters of “Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…)”, the nuances and delusions of Daniel’s mind will be discussed in further intricate details and in much deeper thought.

Daniel’s mind seemed always dark to me through the stories he told me, even through his childhood memories. He often told me disturbing stories from his childhood that you know are so dark, so deep, so distraught, so full of angst…you can only take these stories, listen and put them on the bookshelf of your own mind for later reference. You catalogue them into files because they are so unique and you realize you are talking to an individual that is one of a kind. Now, I know I was talking to a true psychopath. I was privy to his mind and the inner workings of it.

On the day he brought me in to his parent’s home, Sandra introduced herself as “Mrs. S” to me, saying that only “friends” were allowed to call her Sandy or Sandra. She showed me her home, focusing on a few pieces of furniture that her father, Daniel’s grandfather had built, and a portrait that hung in the living room circa 1900. The portrait was of her family, except of one woman posed in it, whom she said had married into the family. The odd thing about that portrait, and I always questioned her, was that Daniel was the spitting image of the woman in that photo. Sandra would get an odd look on her face when I mentioned any references to this woman, and tell me she couldn’t remember her name. What she did finally tell me about Daniel’s great-aunt was that she had been married and divorced and this was her second marriage, indicating that she was not a blood relation. Still, I always wondered how Daniel and she could pass for twins. Then again, circa 1900 women didn’t have the opportunity to marry and divorce a few times. Sandra’s stories were just that. Her stories to set her moods and fantasies at the time. She was a Cluster-B personality type and she would say and do what ever pleased her at the moment.

Daniel was walking on eggshells through this first meeting, but by the end of it, “Mrs. S” had me calling her Sandy. I pretty much just listened to her stories about her home and how it ranked in her neighborhood according to her, wondered about what type of mother Daniel had growing up and was happy to leave. The quick impression I left with was of a woman trying to impress another woman with her home, because that’s what she had to work with at the time. She basically knew nothing about me but she kept the conversation wrapped around herself.

Over and done, I thought. I met the woman and wouldn’t have to think too much about her for a while. That was not what was on her mind, I was about to discover the very next morning when I noticed her van lying in wait for me in the parking lot where I would drop Daniel off for work. She was hidden behind a building and drove her van up to my car as soon as I began walking back to mine. She had hidden herself from view so neither Daniel or I could see her.

Like son, like mother, the stalking behavior had begun and I should have jumped in my car then, turned it on and fled. I had never encountered an older woman stalker with these personality disorders before dressed in sheep’s clothing. She fooled me the day I met her, but never again after that, and certainly not the day I discovered her watching me wishing her son a good day at work.

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…They Plot To Murder-Should You Confront Them?)

I am a Survivor, with pain. I am Survivor with torturous mental pain that creeps into my thoughts when I least expect it. Daniel had many diagnoses, and he turned them all loose on me.

I wonder if he would sit and imagine how he would attempt to destroy me with his truly evil, sick, psychologically twisted thoughts. He obviously did. To sit now, and imagine that the man you lived with was plotting to poison you, plotting to hurt you, and yes, plotting to murder you takes your everyday thoughts to a new level of awareness of the human mind and its own brand of humanity and of those that lack the basic tenets of what normal people should have in their command of decency.

In retrospect, Daniel often spoke hauntingly of ways to kill his mother. He would envision his Jeep truck slipping on the ice, while plowing her driveway of the snow, and crashing into her living room picture window. He knew she always watched him through the window while he plowed, as if he couldn’t do the job properly, often coming outside to tell him of “spots” he might have missed or ways that were more efficient in snow plowing. She was always unwilling to cut her apron-strings ties to him and continued to involve herself in any way possible in his life.

He had talked to her cardiologist about her pacemaker and the old myth of how a magnet could stop it. But when he spoke to her doctor, it seemed that he was questioning the myth as a joke, using it as a cover, refuting the story so that it could really be carried to fruition. The cardiologist, didn’t know Daniel’s psychopathic tendencies and hateful, angry thoughts towards Sandra. He didn’t realize that Daniel was on a fishing expedition to learn what type of magnet, what size of magnet, and the method of how this could be done with the exact pacemaker Sandra had inserted in her heart at that time to kill his own mother without being discovered.

I listened in horror as the cardiologist explained to Daniel first jokingly about keeping his mother away from the refrigerator magnets. Then, he went on to explain about the heavier pull of magnets and a more detailed explanation. Daniel absorbed all of this information.  His mother laughed along with the two of them. In retrospect, thinking of her illnesses, I wonder if she realized how sick her son was and that he was plotting to kill her.

Did I attempt to stop Daniel from his thoughts of murder? Of course. He would get this dark, black, empty, vacant look in his eyes. I would tell him that if he murdered his mother, he would be apprehended eventually. I would try to convince him of the fruitlessness of his plan.  Eventually, his thoughts would seem to be distracted.

I didn’t know and still don’t know if his idea was to have me along as an accomplice or witness to what he wanted to do. It would be a very rare occurrence to find me alone in the house. Between the two of them (Sandra and him), I truly was a prisoner. They had me covered so I was never left alone. Perhaps by my constant talking about the negativity of the situation, I was managing to save myself again.

Daniel and his mother had none of those things that I refer to as basic human qualities of goodness to use on a regular basis at free will.  What they did have was the ability to mimic those simple human qualities when they believed they were needed for acceptance in their dealing with their neighbors, friends, public or doctors. These two people were never real. Yes, they stood before me. But everything about their demeanor was a sham concocted by their psychiatric illness, respectively. I only wish they had been fully identified by doctors back then, recognized for who they were and put away for help when opportunity had presented itself to me.

But Sandra’s money spoke volumes in keeping her and her son independent in a system that would keep them free to continue their destruction on unsuspecting people. That’s called justice in America.

Innocent until proven guilty. But the truth of that statement is innocent because you fall through cracks in various systems that don’t recognize signs that will continue to hurt others. That’s what happened to Daniel all his life. A mother to protect him, lie for him, buy his way out of trouble he caused, leaving his mind to become worse in its view of the world, thus creating a far worse scenario than if she had sought help for him as a child.

Sandra once laughingly told me the story of a constable coming to their home looking for Daniel, while she, Lester and Daniel were in the backyard. Sandra quickly told the constable he had just missed him. The constable, apparently a new hire, not having a description of Daniel, asked who the young man was in their yard. Sandra blatantly lied to the law enforcement officer, telling him that the man who stood before him was one of Daniel’s friends from around the block who also come looking for him. “Guess he’s pretty popular today!” Sandra glibly chirped at the constable, to avert attention from Daniel. The constable left and Sandra then investigated what the charges were about for her son before she had him turn himself in to the police station with her present to see if she could smooth whatever the problem was that he had done this time.

When Sandra told me this story, she laughed and had such a delightful gleam in her eyes that she fooled law enforcement. For what reason? Pathological lying? Her histrionic personality? No one can honestly answer the question. But one answer is clear. The mother son team of Daniel and Sandra Smith were one sick, twisted couple. That is a certainty.

When I realize now that I had confronted these two people often and put myself in a dangerous and tenuous position, I can honestly say that confrontation is not something I would recommend to people when they meet or realize they are living with people who have these personality disorders.

Sociopaths and psychopaths are dangerous people and do not react positively to confrontation. They do not react positively to a person that is going to reveal who they are and what they are about. They can be violent people. If you are in a situation where you realize or suspect that the person you are with falls into these categories, or has been diagnosed with these disorders, you might want to reconsider your relationship status with them.

They will deny if you accuse. They will attempt to twist your accusations back at you and make you the accused. They will attempt to frustrate you. They can become violent and attack to get you under their control if they don’t see themselves as succeeding. The best solution to is to walk away and evade this type of person. Stop all contact with them. Change your phone number, your email accounts, your online accounts, and if you must move your residence, you move also. This may sound drastic, but trust me when I say this,  a time may come when you realize it is the only safe thing to do.

You can help yourself. You cannot help them. Remember these words. They cannot be helped. They cannot be rehabilitated. You are the Survivor. Be proud of yourself for walking away and being strong.

I’m delighted I’m no longer with them. I thank the heavens for getting me out alive every day. I just wonder if they will ever get out of my head.

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