Defining Moment.

Fullscreen capture 2172016 20814 PMDoes the psychopath define me or do I define myself? I’ve talked about re-defining myself, creating a new persona and re-building my life. Thinking about the last few years and how far I’ve come through my own abyss, I’ve come to realize that altho some may believe that when a person comes into contact with a psychopath, that person defines the future of them, I do believe that only a person themselves are responsible for what occurs in their life.

Many people sit in their chairs and blame their parents/caregivers for who they are today. They take issue for the way they were raised, the abuses they may have incurred and how they were held back in their childhoods.

I recently read a review on a perfume from a woman where she stated that her mother always spent money on herself and never on her children, so as a child, this woman loved spending overnights at other children’s homes so that her own laundry would smell “fresh and clean” with laundry sheets. The perfume she was reviewing reminded her of that smell and she was delighted to own it because of the memory of going to others’ homes.

Somehow, it bothered me that the reviewer had to include her mother in the review. Maybe her mother was allergic to laundry sheets. Maybe her mother couldn’t stand the scent. Personally, I never used laundry sheets in the dryer because I couldn’t stand the scent it left on clothing. And I didn’t like the chemicals. But the point is, why blame someone else for something totally irrelevant? Just go forward. Buy the perfume, but don’t blame your mother for buying it. There may be other issues in your life concerning your parent, dig deeper and grow.

I never want other Survivors to just wallow in self-pity and blame others for what happened to them for their current situation. What happened to them is horrible. What happened to them is not their fault. What happened to them wreaked havoc on their memories and will continue to do so forever. But it does not define them unless they allow it to. 

Here’s the catch that some Survivors might believe keeps them in a vicious cycle. When you meet someone new in your life, generally you want to trust that person. You begin talking with them, they share insights about their past and hopefully, you’d like to share insights about your past, too. So you start to talk about some things, carefully leaving out the bad stuff. But, eventually, you know you have to talk about it.

And when that time comes, you have a 50-50 chance of the other person’s reaction. Honestly, it’s probably an 80-20 chance. So you tell them some horrific stories, they’re amazed/horrified/don’t know whether to pity you/act sympathetic/walk away. Now they’re the one walking on those eggshells. Not that you wanted them to, but you had to tell them at some point. Because if you didn’t, then you just might be accused of holding back on them. It’s a vicious cycle.

I’ve never kept anything back from anyone. If I meet someone who seems worthwhile, I gradually tell them my story. If they can’t take it, that’s on them.

I’ve learned that in re-defining myself, I am who I am. I am not going to change myself. I have a past that’s not so neat and tidy. It doesn’t have a white picket fence. It’s scary to some. If they’re frightened by it, they shouldn’t let the door hit them on they’re way out.

Because if anyone should be frightened, that person should be me, not them. That’s the amusing part to me. When I am asked if the psychopath could hurt  them, I could scream. If that’s their first question after I explain it all, instead of their asking if am still at risk, then I know they are a weak person who looks out for themselves first.

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And this is how I am re-defining myself. I am strong. I am not vulnerable. I can take care of myself. I watch how people react. This is me and frankly, if you don’t like it, I’m not going to change for you. I’ve lost too much in my past and I’m not going to lose any more.

I realize what issues I have and what events in my past cause me to behave the way I do. That’s my current choice because it’s my personal way of dealing with life. If anyone has any questions, all they have to do is ask. No one is perfect, I certainly am not. But I sure as hell will never change for anyone. Today and each day forward is my defining moment.



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No Means No.

I’m still here. Still defining myself. Still with nightmares. Still wondering if I’m broken. Or am I picking up the pieces and repairing them? Repairing them accurately? Or just putting them back together?

Some people sing the same old song and don’t realize what year it is. Others go on to new music and pretend the classics don’t exist. What feels right isn’t always right. Sometimes, what feels odd is just growth. And that’s where the scary part comes in.

It’s not just children that feel fear. Adults feel it, too. Only their fear manifests itself in different ways. Humans show fear in different forms. Anger, pompous attitudes, shyness, elitist attitudes…know any of these types?

I know I’ve grown. Grown immeasurably. I can feel it. I can see it in my eyes. But, most importantly, I can hear it in my voice when I say no. When I say no to ideas and to acts that others think are appropriate. When others tell me I am at fault for something I know I didn’t do, when I am blamed or accused for a situation that someone else has manipulated, I will not walk away. I will stand for myself and calmly explain what has happened. I will also always tell the truth, I always have.

The experiences I have endured in my life could have been major obstacles to experiencing future pleasures and truly enjoying what life has to offer. Having a narcissistic mother, the psychopath and his mother were indeed traumatic events. There were others, and at times, I wondered, and I honestly still do, why I’m that chosen one. I just keep getting stronger and stronger.

Recently, I visited a friend who I’d known for about five years. He’d visited me in my new home when I’d moved and I’d shown him my new town. We had a great time as friends, hiking, visiting the local shops, etc., and we’d always kept in touch. I’d decided to go visit him many months later and also, visit a few other friends up in my old area where I used to live.

On the second day of the visit, this friend had other plans for me, apparently. He decided he was going to rape me. My reaction? I began to fight him and asked him, “What the f*ck are you doing?” angrily. He persisted, telling me, he deserved it, which only made me angrier. Now, we are only friends, there was no hidden agenda on my part and he knew how I felt. I kept fighting him, telling him absolutely not, no means no.

At this part, I will tell you he had been drinking.  That should not excuse him at all. He knew what he was doing. When he realized that I would not give in to his demands, he then told me to leave his home. It was 3 a.m. and he told me to leave. I had a one and a half-hour drive home and had not slept yet.

I took my things, packed my car and left as quickly as I could. By then it was 3:30 a.m. I was exhausted from battling him and no sleep. I knew I had a long drive ahead and was not looking forward to it.

The next morning he texted me. He threatened me. I ignored his text and didn’t respond. That’s why I say he knew what he was doing. If he knew enough to text me the next day, he certainly remembered what he did the previous evening.

The second day, he texted me again. I ignored his text again. He never texted again.

What did this experience do to me? I felt let down about people. Knowing someone for five years, thinking I knew someone for five years and having them turn on me in this way made me wonder if you ever really know anyone. Who can you trust?

What I did learn is that I can trust myself. I fought this man and said no. He probably thought I would give in, but I didn’t. He probably thought because it was the middle of the night, I wouldn’t leave. I didn’t care what time it was, I didn’t want to spend another minute around a person that is that soul-less.  I spent about two weeks dealing with what happened. He turned into garbage that should rot in hell but that’s not my call. I’m sure he will get his in the end.

I mentioned fear and how it rears its ugly head in different forms. This man has prostate cancer but refuses to take the appropriate medication for his condition. Why? Because he told me that he wouldn’t be able to function as a male could if he did take the meds his doctor wanted him to have. I told him he was shortening his life if he didn’t take them. He said that his virility was more important. I told him that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. That was a conversation we’d had over a year ago. I suppose his fear of not being a real man became juxtaposed into an attempted rape that night. I feel sorry for him. He’s not a real man anymore.  Maybe he never was.  And his prostate cancer has nothing to do with it.

Update: The Soul-Less Sexual Predator dared to text me recently. I did not respond. This is what he said. “Hey. Let’s be adults and start communicating again. It’s in the past already and I have no hard feelings and I miss talking with you. I think we can still have good times together. I know you were upset. Oh well, lmk one way or the other.”

Really? I told you he had no soul. He also has no brain cells. Let’s break it down.

I’m the adult, you’re not. No, I don’t want to communicate with an as*hole. It’s in your past because your mind doesn’t realize attacking a woman is a violent crime punishable by law. There’s something seriously f*cked up here.

I wonder how many other women he’s attacked. He has no hard feelings? For what? Apparently you don’t realize what you did. Recidivism rates vary and I won’t discuss them here because of the immense variables.

I can tell you that after talking with close friends about this ordeal, another woman admitted to me that 5 years ago he had sexually stalk-texted her after she had met him. I wish she had shared that information but she was so disgusted but it/him she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. A prime reason why the recidivism rate for sexual offenders can vary so greatly. Women don’t always talk.

I certainly don’t miss this unfortunate excuse for a human being. More than upset, I was disappointed in him and disgusted. I was angry at his behavior. I’ll never speak to him again.

If ever called to court, I’d be happy to speak at him, there’s a difference. Women need to be protected from this type of predator, the sheep in wolve’s clothing.



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Are you being “gaslighted”?

Gaslighting. Maybe you’ve heard the term, maybe not. But the people that do it to you do it so well. And so efficiently until you don’t know which end is up. Read on from this excellent article.

Lucky Otters Haven

I found an interesting article on A Healthy Place about the emotional abuse practice of gaslighting. I never knew the various types of gaslighting actually had names!

Here’s everything you need to know about this sinister manipulation tactic used by narcissistic abusers, and how to tell if you’re a victim.


Gaslighting Definition, Techniques and Being Gaslighted
Written by Natasha Tracy

Gaslighting is a form of emotional abuse where the abuser manipulates situations repeatedly to trick the victim into distrusting his or her own memory and perceptions. Gaslighting is an insidious form of abuse. It makes victims question the very instincts that they have counted on their whole lives, making them unsure of anything. Gaslighting makes it very likely that victims will believe whatever their abusers tell them regardless as to their own experience of the situation. Gaslighting often precedes other types of emotional and physical abuse because the victim of…

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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.



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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Twice In One Night)

So I promised the officer I’d call back. With trepidation, I promised him. I shut the door. I looked around me. And waited. I knew he’d be back. Call it my psychic sensor telling me. Or let’s just say he liked his games. Or maybe he just wasn’t finished for his day’s work. But he’d be back. The question at hand was, what did he have planned this time?

I let Thor out for a quick run in the yard. Watched him do his sniffing. Brought him back in. Locked up. I walked around the house, checking the locks again. Checking the windows. I knew all was in order. Made myself a cup of tea to bring upstairs. Did a few stretches. Went back upstairs with my dog, turned on the tv, cellphone next to me. And waited.

Sure enough, as luck would have it,  not an hour later, I went to the window to look out over my backyard. And there was Daniel. Actually in my yard, already. So I go through the routine again. Hit 911. Report Daniel  loitering in my yard. Yes, I have a PFA against him. Yes, my doors are locked. Yes, I’ll stay on the phone. My only concern at this point is who will respond to this call. I couldn’t be so lucky as to have knowledgeable officers respond.

I was right with my thoughts. When I heard the cars pull up, I went downstairs. I opened my front door to see a burly, overweight officer barreling his way towards me. I knew this wasn’t going to be good.

This time, a sergeant responded. A big, burly, gut hanging out sergeant. Two cars responded, and two cars were at the front of my home. Only two officers had come out of their cruisers. This belligerent man and another officer that was staying back for some reason. No cruiser was searching at the alleyway behind my house.

Now this sergeant starts to interrogate me. He begins talking in a rather loud and caustic tone. I close my door, leaving Thor inside. I lean back against my door, arms folded. He obviously feels that he is going to intimidate me. Does he really think this is possible? After all I have been through, after the night I have had, does this over-bearing man think he is going to frighten me?

I look him squarely in the eyes. I do not waver from my stance. I was tired. Tired of Daniel. Tired of the Police Department’s attitude towards domestic abuse victims. Tired of ignorant police officers that don’t know the psychological aspects of criminals. I am just tired.

Sergeant Bubba (not his real name) begins with in his loudest voice designed to wake up my neighbors, “I’ve had about enough of you. If you continue to call this city’s Police Department with false reports of this man coming onto your property, I will arrest you. Make no mistake about it. I have had enough of you calling us and wasting our time!”

I am tired, yes. I was angry, yes. Now I am infuriated. How dare this insipid human being treat me as if I was a simpleton playing phone games with 911?

I am not an easily flustered woman. At this point in my life, I was getting stronger by the day, by the minute it seemed. Men were becoming more and more annoying with their chauvinist, arrogant, antiquated attitudes towards me. I stared evenly at this man, listening to him blow his steam, scream his worthless words, while I was calculating my response to what he was saying.

Then he ended his blustery attempt at trying to intimidate me with this question, “I want to know what psychiatric drugs you are on?!” And then it hit me. I knew all along from listening to him that he didn’t believe in domestic abuse victims. That was obvious. But there was more to his words.  This officer’s posturing and stance were completely off-balance for a responder.

“Psychiatric drugs?” I shot back, with eyebrow cocked.  “That’s right,” he countered. “I was at Daniel’s house just now, and he and his mother were quite comfortable, in their living room, watching television.” he said. I started to smile, quite sardonically. He had let the wrong information out. He had just made the biggest mistake by telling me he had gone to Daniel’s house first instead of responding to the original call placed to 911.

“Let me guess, you were talking to Sandra, weren’t you?” I said. “She must have explained a lot of what’s going on to you.” That’s right,” he continued to scream at me, “Like I said, I’m tired of all these false reports of you calling 911. I’m going to arrest you for falsely reporting him in your yard and on your property tonight. Sandra told me a bit about you.” Now I was angry. This officer, who didn’t know me at all, had never met me, had taken the word of the mother of the man who I had a Protection From Abuse Order and believed every single story she had told him. He had gone to her home first, instead of responding to my call and my home immediately. Something was very wrong.

Now it was my turn to lash into this sergeant. “Let me tell you about psychiatric drugs. Let me tell you about Sandra. You had no right to go to her home first. She lives 3 miles away from this house. You were to respond to the original call. By going to her home, you placed my life in danger. I have a PFA against her son. A legal document. Do you understand what a Protection From Abuse Order is?”

The other officer was still standing back, off my porch. He was just watching this scenario. Now this sergeant seemed to realize he was dealing with someone who was not whom he thought was going to answer the door. Perhaps as an abuser he was accustomed to having others back down to whatever he said. This time, I wasn’t.

“Sandra was admitted to the psychiatric ward 5 times since I’ve met her. But she told you differently, didn’t she?  Would you like proof? Call the Valley Network of Hospitals and verify it. You asked if I’m on psychiatric medications. No, I am not. But she and her son certainly are. Here are the list of medications that both of them are on….” I continued with my barrage at this man. I named every medication that these two people were on. I named the two psychiatrists that were treating them. I named the judge that had signed the PFA.

Then finished, I looked at him with narrowed eyes, and said, “Different story than what she told you, isn’t it?”

“The two of them were watching tv at home,” he countered. “Daniel was in his bathrobe.”

He was losing some steam, not much, but some. I wasn’t about to back down. If this man thought he was going to win, he could think anything and call himself delusional. At this point, at 5 a.m. in the morning, after living the nightmare of the past few years with the Smith family, there wasn’t any way this man was going to tell me that mother and son were resting comfortably in their living room watching television in their toasty pjs.

“I’m not done. ” I said. I never raised my voice to this officer. I knew that if I did, he would arrest me for disturbing the peace, at the least. “You claim the two of them were in the living room at their home watching tv? And that Daniel was in his bathrobe?” I wanted to verify everything he was saying to me. He nodded and was vehement about what he had just witnessed at the earlier home.

“Then let me tell you a few things about that family that you don’t know. Sandra doesn’t watch tv in the living room. She has a special bed in her bedroom with a tv on a shelf angled to her eyesight. It’s too uncomfortable for her to sit anywhere in the living room. Daniel would never be sitting there with his mother, but that’s beside the point anyway. Daniel doesn’t own a bathrobe. He never did, he abhors them. He wouldn’t wear one. But I would bet my life that if you were to go back and check that bathrobe, it has a huge “L” on it for Lester, his deceased father. I’d also bet that if you were to check underneath that bathrobe you’d have found Daniel fully dressed in his street clothes, but you didn’t, did you?”

He started to sputter a bit, began to pace a bit, and coughed out, “I had no reason to look under the man’s bathrobe.””

“Sandra had him put it on as soon as he returned, just as she had her little television party set up. But you can’t see that. One more thing. Did you check the hood of his vehicle?”

Now Officer Bubba was quite red in the face, sputtering more than I thought he would, and had backed away from me. “Check the hood of his vehicle?”

“Yes,” I said. “”Because if you did, you would have felt a warm hood.”

He began to walk off my porch at that point. I asked him his badge number. He was mumbling his name at me, and three times I had to ask him for his badge number. He was on the sidewalk before I could understand what the numbers were clearly. Guess he didn’t want me to know what his real name was, because the city’s finest didn’t have an Officer Bubba. Although in my mind, they had quite a few. This time the Brotherhood was not going to win.

This officer’s behavior was tantamount to Daniel and Daniel’s mother’s behavior. I had made a call to 911 for a Domestic Abuse Violation and the officer that responded was an abuser himself.

He was verbally accusing me of acts that were not true. He was blatantly lying to me to cover his own insecurities. His comments about the whereabouts of Daniel were an attempt to try and discount my phone call to 911. He was trivializing, judging, criticizing and threatening me. He was attempting to order me by telling me he was going to arrest me for something that in his eyes I had done.

However, at this point in time, I knew I was right in what I was doing. I knew Daniel had been at my home again. I also realized that this officer must have been an abusive man in his personal life. That could be the  reason for his behaviour towards me.

The response I took to him would be crucial. I needed to focus. I needed to be strong, assertive and calm. I needed to be repititious in my arguments to him. I realized he wasn’t being rational from the moment he arrived. An officer doesn’t respond to a 911 call concerning a PFA order stomping up the steps of a porch yelling at the woman that made the call threatening to arrest her. If he was alone, I may have been in trouble. There was another officer present. Watching that officer stand back was a clue that something was wrong with this man’s behavior.

When I responded to him, I needed to respond with authority. I knew I must stand my ground, not waiver and look him directly in the eyes. I needed to be calm but forceful and make him understand that I was not going to go away. He needed to understand that he was not going to bully me, even if he made idle threats about arresting me in his superior position as a police officer.

After all was said by him, he needed to be responsible for his statements. That is why I wanted him to not necessarily  understand the impossibility of Daniel wearing the bathrobe, but to put that question in his mind. It’s also why I commented about the hood of Daniel’s truck. Now I had put two questions in his mind that he never  thought about, were perplexing him and he could not counter. At this level of verbal abuse by a police officer, I had to find ways to stop the discussion and end it as quickly as possible without any harm to myself. I was becoming  adept at handling abusive people. There were more than I believed possible in my world.



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)…Meet Daniel

With A Damaged Petal Is A Flower Any Less Beautiful?

Meet Daniel. The psychopath I thought I was falling in love with. The one that I thought I was beginning a relationship with. The one that was too good to be true. The one that I used the word quiver about. Oh well. They say if it’s too good to be true, it is. And he was. The one with all the red flags.

Daniel, Daniel, sweet psychopathic Daniel. How do I begin? I’ve told you how I first saw him. How he used to round the bend at the flea market, holding on to his wife’s hand so protectively, so defensively, so pathetically. How sad he appeared to me then.

His eyes covered by dark sunglasses, his head capped, shoulders hunched, his face always glowering, he would come around the corner looking for me every week-end. His whole demeanor would change when he would see that I was at my booth. I used to think that it was because there was a chemistry between us. Silly, naive me. How gullible and vulnerable I was without realizing how strong I could have been also. I hadn’t taken Psychopath 101.

My brain was telling me one thing, while my emotions were telling me another story. Chemistry was taking over where it shouldn’t have and I was listening to something I should have known better to ignore.  I was feeling empty inside, and Daniel picked up on it.

By the time he would drop her hand, she would go her way,and he into my booth, although Daniel wasn’t really smiling.  He was a changed man. He would smirk at times, the corners of his lips might go up. He would flirt somewhat, like a little boy. He was child-like in his ways to me. But those child-like ways were endearing, boy-like and cute. Almost adorable. Very sweet. This was all before I knew. Before I knew about his psychological problems…

Most women, when they first meet a guy, don’t ask him certain questions. I mean, these types of questions don’t come to mind for the average relationship. Can you imagine yourself asking a potential date these questions? Handing them a survey and telling them this? “Hi, I always have my first dates fill this out. Just as a precautionary measure. Don’t be shy now. I value honesty, by the way. Oh-I do have a way of checking if you lie. And if any of your answers are yes? Please be sure to fill in the dates and links to where and when. Thank you.”

And of course, there’s your date. After being handed this questionnaire, filled with questions, wondering why you have insisted that they fill it out to the best of their ability, as if they are completing a job application. And the Questions!  #1. Have you ever been issued a PFA(Protection From Abuse) Order against yourself?  #2. Have you ever been in an anger management course? (If so, when and why? Court-ordered?)  #3. Ever been arraigned on an assault charge?  And my personal favorite, because only if they committed a felony, they would know why I asked this question, #4. Are you allowed to visit Canada? Americans that have committed a felony are not allowed to go into Canada if  they have a felony in their past.

Well,the list could go on and on. Actually, wouldn’t it be wonderful if as potential dating partners, we could sketch this list of questions we had for a date. And they did have to answer truthfully because the answers could be checked by a local law enforcement program. We could weed out potentially harmful candidates immediately. I’m also pretty positive the ACLU would have this type of program knocked down immediately for invasion of personal privacy, which it really is. But a procedure like this would make for very safe dating for those people that don’t want to talk about their pasts.

We’re forced to find out about a person on our own. So let’s say those of you reading this are Monday morning quarterbacks. You read what I write and say to yourself, “How couldn’t she see this or that in him?”.  It’s easier for the reader to see what was going to happen as you are reading this blog. It’s similar to watching a movie. You can guess what’s going to happen. And again, you question the victim’s motives, her strengths and her weaknesses.  But remember, you weren’t there. You can second-guess me now. But I couldn’t do that then.

The summer ended, it was fall and the market was soon closing. I would be going inside to an indoor market. I had no idea where he was from. I had no idea if he went to the indoor market I usually sold my wares in. I went in for the winter and didn’t see him again for a few months. It was almost springtime before that meeting occurred. Tending to my booth, he bounced in excitedly. “I just bought a truck,” he said. “You’re the first person I’m showing it to!” Somehow his exuberance took hold of me and I just walked outside with him, leaving my booth open.

I knew there other vendors to watch it for me. I really wasn’t worried. He  was overjoyed at the idea that I wanted to see his truck that he had just purchased. This idea delighted him so much. All he could do was  smile from ear to ear. He went on his way after about 10-15 minutes, a very happy man, or actually, a very happy young teen-age boy.  His exuberance was catchy.

Later I would find out that I really was the first person he had shown the truck to after he had bought it. His father had lent him the money for it. Even his wife hadn’t seen it yet. For whatever his reasoning was then, my opinion mattered more to him. That was probably his way of showing me how I pleased him, encouraging me in a non-verbal way to continue the relationship.

One Friday, after he had cashed his paycheck, he had come into my store. He handed me a Ben Franklin. He asked me to hold it for him. He told me he wasn’t that good with money, and wanted to save it, but if he tried to, it would be gone within  the week. I took it, and put it in a corner of my wallet. The following week, he asked me for the one hundred dollars. I opened up my wallet, and handed it to him. He acted rather surprised. “Did I take you by surprise?” I asked, “Didn’t expect me to still have it?” He looked at me. “No, I didn’t”, he countered, “Most women I would have asked to hold it would have spent it.”, he said. “I”m not most women.” I replied. Again, he was placating me, telling me how I wasn’t like the other women he knew. Again, how naively I was reacting and thinking.

This was all too good to be true. I cannot emphasize this enough. If it seems too good to be true, it is. If the person appears to know you inside and out from the very beginning, and you find this astounding, back off. It isn’t astounding. That person is dangerous. There is a reason that they know what they know about you. They have studied you. They have learned about you without you realizing it. They have picked up on your behaviours, mores and mannerisms without you even realizing what they were doing. Psychopaths, sociopaths are very good at what they do. They will convince you this relationship was meant to be.

But still, still in the back of your mind, it feels so good. Somehow, somewhere you don’t want to believe what your brain is telling you. The reality of the situation doesn’t want to sink in. Why? I can tell you the reasons in my situation. I cannot talk for all women, but I am sure that the reasons are very similar.

These people choose vulnerable women. They choose women who are seeking something, even if they don’t know what that something is. For some reason, it is very obvious to them. Vulnerability sticks out like a sore thumb. A woman can be strong, she can be independent, she can be alone and take care of herself. Through all of this, she can still be vulnerable. That is extremely important to remember.

The first few times we met during the afternoon, we would go to a park, actually a park with woods and a large creek. He knew I missed the water, coming from New Jersey, and felt land-locked in Pennsy. He actually brought me a token gift the first day in the park. What he didn’t know was that I was a member of PETA, disliked hunters intensely and would be quite revolted by the token gift. As he was handing it to me, he explained that it was considered quite valuable in the animal world to hunters, and he had taken it when he caught a squirrel. (Ugh!) It was a red furry squirrel tail. Nothing was more disgusting to me than the cut-off tail of a dead animal. As he was handing it to me, I didn’t want to take it, and explained why. His face dropped slightly, it was one of those moments when both realize that they don’t want to hurt the others’ feelings.  Or carefully calculated by Daniel to measure my reactions to his feelings. Either way, he was watching me carefully. He put it back into the envelope  and handed it to me. That was the end of the squirrels’ tail.

Odd though, I kept it for years in one of my wallets. Maybe as a reminder of a first gift, perhaps because of the look on his face when he was giving it to me, I’m not sure.  But every time I saw it, I’d shake my head disapprovingly. I might even take it out of the wallet. Occasionally I would hold it up to the light to see the colors. You see, I wrapped it in a plastic zip-lock bag and taped it shut.




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Survival Of A Psychopath…(With Borderline Tendencies)…Enter Daniel’s Three Personalities…

Daniel In Three Personalities

Daniel In Three Personalities

I thought today about his different personalities. He had three. Dan, Daniel and Little Danny. Don’t ever think a threesome is fun. No pun intended.

Dan wasn’t the host. Daniel was. He was weak, yet the host of the three personalities. He was home to all the boys. If there was a female inside of him, I never saw her come out. Daniel had the warmest of the personalities. He was the one to kiss my tears away. He would be the one to give me the romantic gifts in the beginning. Daniel would always be there with the big shoulder when my family would turn their backs on me. Unbelievably, he was the most empathetic. But I knew that personality stopped at age 12. I’ll go into more detail on each personality.

Little Daniel apparently was about 4 1/2 years old. He was always looking for his mother. Always looking for love. thinking continuously about this nasty babysitter, and what she was going or habitually had done to him, he was a little boy torn into pieces at an early age. Just watching this personality made me wonder if parents really knew how their interactions with their children at early ages made impressions.

Dan was pure evil. Nasty, scornful, lacking remorse, he was always bullying Daniel. He would always be telling me how if only he could snuff Daniel his life would be perfect. To him, Daniel was only a roadblock. He knew Daniel was holding on to me. He knew Daniel loved me in only the way that Daniel could. And he hated that with all his emotion and anger. And with all that anger boiling inside of Dan, he hated me as well.

How did I know about these three personalities?  The first personality called and introduced himself when I was home alone one evening. Daniel had gone out alone for a pack of cigarettes. He had taken my SUV down to the local convenience store a few blocks away.  Maybe a half hour or so later the phone rang and it was him. Or rather, another version of him, another personality of him that I hadn’t met yet.

“Hello?” I answered. “Hello?” a little boy’s voice responded. “Is my mommy there?” My heart sank right along with my stomach down to the ground. My blood ran cold. I had dealt with a lot of things up to this point with this man. My stress level was over the top. I had only been alone for a few minutes, trying to sort my own thoughts, my head, when I recognized this little boy’s voice as Daniel.

I asked him if it was indeed him. He responded resoundingly no. He told me he wanted his mommy. Then he asked if I was his babysitter. And he told me he was lost, in a big car he didn’t recognize, but that he remembered how he can be safe, and had locked all the doors. He also said that the locks were hard to find and they looked funny, not like the locks on his Daddy’s truck or his Mommy’s car. He was also starting to cry.

I told him to look out the car windows to tell me what he could see. After all, if I was to find him, I needed to know where he and the SUV were located. This voice that I was hearing was definitely his. It was shocking me to the core. I knew it was real and I knew there was no joke involved here. No one was faking anything.

Little Danny looked out the windows for me. Unfortunately, it was dark. Again, I could hear sniffling, and him beginning to cry again. I was always good with children, always patient so I was going to use my regular approach with him. “We can figure this out together”, I said, “I can see that you’re pretty smart, you know.”  I was trying to get his mind off of the frightening darkness. The only way I could do this was to make him feel like a big boy. Trying to make a roughly 38 year-old-man who had changed into a 4 and a half-year old personality feel like a big boy. Not like himself, but making a man feel like a big boy. The task wasn’t daunting, it was crucial to my survival, I thought. Remember Stockholm Syndrome.

Little Danny seemed to feed into this. “I am a big boy,” he said. “My Daddy says I am, but Mommy says I’m not…” his voice began to trail off again. “Tell me what you see outside the windows.” I interrupted, not wanting him to cry again. He chose a window and looked out. He told me he saw lots of houses, but they were different from his house. Again, I had to imagine what a four-year-old was thinking and seeing. A four-year-old displaced not only from place but from time, also.

I told him there were all kinds of houses. There were big houses, little houses,  yellow houses like the one his Mommy lived in now, brown houses, brick houses that were mushed together…I was trying to think of the areas of Bethlehem he might be parked. I was talking and thinking like a four-year-old. There were plenty of old brick rowhomes in our area. Little Danny wouldn’t know the word for them, so I called them mushed houses. He giggled at that one.

It was a lucky guess on my part. He told me he saw some mushed houses. “I see some mushed houses. But they’re brown. And yellow. And white. There’s something scary too. I don’t want to look out that window.” Bingo. I had used the right colors. And guessed the right area somehow. He was no more than three blocks from our home. “Well, no one said to look out the scary window Danny. Tell me about the mushy houses.”

He started giggling again. “Noooo….they’re called mushed! You said mushed!”  Little Danny had some substance in him too. While I was talking to him, I was leaving my house and going to him. I knew exactly where the car had been parked. Three blocks away there was a row of townhouses along a street. They were newer. And the colors yellow, white and brown.  Across the street from them was a cemetery. That’s what was outside the scary window.

As he was telling me about the mushed houses, I arrived at the SUV. I unlocked the door, looked at this lost soul hidden in these dark brownish-black eyes and slid in. I’ll say it again as I always do. What my opportunity was then. I could have taken him to a psychiatric ward. I could have called his psychiatrist and had him talk to him as Little Danny. That is, if Little Danny had stayed with Daniel that long.

There was no use in calling Sandra, his mother. What was the point there? She would only deny anything she saw or heard him say. She would make excuses, as she always did, again and again and again.  Call one of my children? The oldest was at college, two hours away. The second oldest spent half a week with her grandmother and the other half with her father commuting to college. She was studying, ironically, criminal psychology. She had turned deaf eyes and ears to my situation. My youngest was just that. Too young. And I? I was struggling to survive from the traumas of my four motor vehicle accidents.  At this point in  time, with Daniel,  I am considered disabled. I had no one left. No one. No one but myself. Or so I thought back then.

And everything I am telling you has happened to me. Yes, I am that survivor. Survivor Of A Psychopath…(With Borderline Tendencies)…



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