Stop Victimizing The Victim. Start Penalizing The Perpetrator.

You can’t victimize the victim. You shouldn’t victimize the victim. But it still happens every day.

In states where laws determine a victim must come forward, they must also include protection for the victim. Protection in the form of a PFA, non-harassment in the courts should they testify, protection when they testify and empathy and compassion from their local police department(s).

Very often, victims of domestic violence, rape, stalking and similar crimes are frightened and further abused without any further support networks. These victims are protecting their children, their pets and their homes. They may not have the resources they need to garner the support that is needed to protect them. They may be unaware of where to go or where help is located.

Although commercials and print ads are prevalent, it isn’t easy to find help. At times, actually securing the help you need may seem as if you have to jump through hoops of fire. It’s easy for an observer who has never been through hell to sit in their arm chair and simply say “Leave the bastard. What’s wrong with that woman?” But they’ve not experienced the trauma and they’re not standing in their shoes. Our society needs to educate from an early age that abuse and bullying is wrong.

Just as a beginning police officer is stunned with his own stun gun so he feels the force of what that gun can do, those in power that respond should be made to feel what it’s like to be bullied/beaten/berated/psychologically abused and so on so they can fully appreciate what they are dealing with when they respond to a call. They need to understand that No Means No. That “good ole boys will be good ole boys” doesn’t mean anything. They need to appreciate the fear in a victim’s eyes. They also need to stop coddling men who are bullies over women because of their own insecurities. We need to educate our law enforcement to understand that victims should be handled with a national policy, not with an officers pre-conditioned idea when they answer the call.

Enough is enough. Stop Victimizing The Victim. Start Penalizing The Perpetrator. Their time has come.



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When Is It Going To End? Fighting The Wrongs Of Domestic Abuse.

So when does it all end? That’s the question I asked myself watching an episode of Law and Order the other night. I watched the character of Goren face down a suspect who was pointing a gun at him who wanted to commit suicide. The man wanted to kill Goren first and Goren said to him, “Who’s going to clean up the blood? Your daughter?” As he was saying this to the man to catch him off guard, he then was able to wrestle the gun from him, and take him down. It so reminded me of the time Daniel had held a butcher knife to my neck and I had asked him the same question. “Who’s going to clean the blood from the kitchen floor? Your mother?” That line had given me just enough time to cause him to stumble in his thinking to allow me to get out of his grasp and have him drop the butcher knife. The scene in the tv show was so eerily similar. My episode with Daniel ran fourteen years ago. The Law and Order episode was a repeat from a few years back.

Did I start to shake? A bit. I was more frozen than anything. All I could think was when is it going to end. And I realized then it never really will. I am the victim of a violent crime, the victim of a violent person, the victim of a psychopath, the victim of a person who committed violent and repetitive atrocities against me. No matter what anyone tells me, those things will always be in my head. I can’t stop them from re-appearing at inopportune times.

I can’t stop watching television. I can’t stop reading books or magazines or the newspaper. There will always be reminders. It’s how I deal with these reminders is how my life will turn out.

I have a lot of nightmares. I still do. In the beginning, I used to have nightmares that I didn’t remember. Then, I would have nightmares that I would remember snippets of. Then the nightmares would wake me up and I would remember the parts from just before I had awakened. Now when I awaken from my nightmares, I remember the entire episodes. And they’re not pretty. I still awaken sitting up, clutching my head, breathing hard, my dogs surrounding me. It sucks. My dogs look at me to check if I’m ok, and they stare at me as they watch me settle back down. Animals are sensitive to their owners. They’re protective. Which is good.

But still, in dealing with all that has gone on, there aren’t too many that truly understand. Actually, there are so few that understand, I rarely bother to talk about my past.

I’ve come across some people that believe there are some women that use the term domestic abuse as a way to escape a life they didn’t want. That they really didn’t have it that bad. These people truly believe domestic abuse isn’t a viable, living, breathing animal. Their belief is that it’s something a woman uses as an excuse to move to a new area and begin a new life. That’s simply absurd to think that way. Obviously, they’ve never been in a situation where they’ve been threatened so severely.

Others believe that stories of domestic abuse are fabricated. That such things actually never happen. There is a current train of thought that if one partner is charged in a domestic abuse complaint, then the other partner must be charged. I don’t understand this way of thinking by police departments. Obviously each case is different, but each response to a domestic abuse complaint does not warrant each partner being charged. Facts must be collected without prior beliefs before any charges can be pressed.

When it’s all done, when the victim manages to escape, to move away, to leave and begin a new life, it’s still never over. The victim still has their memories. They still have the torn shreds of their existence that they have to put back together somehow to create a new life. And when they look around them, and try to see value in the lives around them, it isn’t easy. When they see others treated unfairly, when they see the authorities doing the same injustices to other women as were done to them and more, it only serves to push them deeper into their own abyss. When does it all end?

When people around them talk about abuse as if it’s a buzz word, it only serves to lessen the impact of the trauma surrounding actual abuse. Others begin to think of domestic abuse in a lesser light and dismiss it, unless it involves their world or the unthinkable-death. Anything else concerning it could be hyperbole, an exaggeration by a woman who is looking for attention, and the entire matter becomes dismissed. When will our society realize abuse victims do not exaggerate the horrid ill-treatment that their partners inflicted upon them behind closed doors? They have nothing to gain by reporting this treatment in many of the instances. At times, they are putting their own lives on the line. Why do I say they have nothing to gain? They take a chance of repercussive attacks by their partner. They take a chance of their police department not believing them. They take a chance of being vilified by the very people that they should be trusting and going to for help and support. The chance of the victim gaining something from reporting the abuse is simply time away from the abuser. Time when she may be able to get away. And that’s only if the authorities take the abuser away for a period of time. When does it all end?

Cases are backed up in the court systems and abusers information is not privy to the proper authorities. Some of these people are serial abusers, yet this information is not disseminated to the proper channels so judges can make proper decisions. When will this type of backlog be cleaned up and when does it all end?

Real life is not tv. What people watch on their flat-screens at home does not happen in America. At least as far as the judicial system, as far as questioning of suspects, and wrapping up a case in an hour. When you see police departments become aware of an abusers past in a television program, and the detectives talk about all of his other infractions concerning his DUI’s, or his arson’s, his history with fighting, his history with a lack of control with authority, his history of traffic violations such a serially-long list of running red lights and/or speeding constantly throughout his driving career, that should signal a red flag. Unfortunately, to the police, in their minds, depending on the individual officer, it may or may not. Some may simply write it off as the “good old boy syndrome”, or “the bad boy”. But it’s not. It’s breaking the law. Simply put, it is someone who constantly breaks the law, without any conscious desire to stay within the limit of the rules of society. This is a person who obviously sees their life as untouchable where they can do as they please to whomever or whatever they want. You know that, I know it and others that have been affected by this abuser know it. Yet, all of his infractions don’t matter when he is finally brought into court. He is only tried on the one charge that brought him there that day. Although he may be a serial abuser, it doesn’t matter. When does it all end?

As long as the authorities allow these men to behave the way they do and turn the other cheek to them, which in turn, allows these men to raise families with children who see convoluted and twisted parenting on the abusers part, this type of behavior will continue. These children will grow up to allow it. Statistically, the boys will mature into abusers and the girls will mature into women who believe there is a reason that they should be abused. Children accept what they have been raised to accept. Obviously, this is a blanket statement, and not all of these children will grow up to be this way. Some will be able to break the ties that bind them and become functioning adults that live within the confines of our society. They will be damaged tho from what they have seen. Is it fair to them that the authorities have allowed this behavior to perpetuate in their homes? When does it all end?

It’s time for legislators to enact stronger laws that truly penalize abusers. It’s time for our governments to create real programs that place abusers in programs that attempt to re-habilitate them. It’s time that our government support programs for women and children that have been victims of abusers. It’s time for our government to create programs for these children to understand they are victims, too. And it’s time for legislators to make police departments finally understand what domestic abuse truly is about and force them to follow laws in a standard procedure through federal guidelines strictly or they themselves will fined.

There is so much work to be done. Attitudes need to be changed across the board. Fear needs to be taken out of the equation. It can only be taken out if victims know that authorities will be supportive and help them in the best way they can. Victims are being frightened on a daily basis in the most torturous, horrific ways that people can not even imagine. Why must  police departments frighten them even more and not offer them sanctuary from their captors?

Society won’t believe victims either if the victims aren’t privy to the proper help of if the abusers aren’t punished. After all, if a story is told about abuses being carried out, and yet the abuser goes free, how can someone understand that the story is true?

Only in America this happens. The land of the free. Where serial abusers go free to run wild and continue their rampages. Continuing their pillaging of human souls, their deprivation of women, their violent acts against human bodies that may or may not be caught or land them a few months in jail. It’s only when the abuser steps over the line and kills their target, then perhaps, depending on their financial resources, will they spend more time in jail. And while the abusers continue their acts with glee, the victims attempt to report them to their local authorities. And they are grilled to the bone about the how’s and why’s and are you sure he did this and what did you do to provoke him to do this questions while the abuser again goes free to contemplate his next action. Yet the abuser is never questioned in this fashion. He is asked, “Did you do this?”  And this is what children of America see. The officer grilling the mother nastily with disdain, while the household cowers in fear, waiting for the next attack. That’s not protection. That’s another attack. When does it all end?

Teach everyone you can about domestic abuse. Teach your children that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Teach them that there is hope. Stand up for your rights. Be firm about your beliefs. Be passionate  and strong. Carry on and know that you are a good person. Fight back. Learn the appropriate laws and use them as necessary.



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

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…The Tilted Pictures.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, I promised.



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