Survivors-Climbing Mountains Because The Mountain Is There

Our childhood/other traumas creates/molds our adulthood. Or does it? It paves the way. It creates memories and triggers for us. What it’s supposed to do is create happy memories and lay proper foundations for a person so they can live their life in society with others in a decently normal fashion with happiness.  Honestly, how many people have had absolutely nothing horrible or traumatic occur, events they wouldn’t hesitate to share with someone, really understand or appreciate what Survivors are living with in the aftermath? They read the stories and see events happen to people. How much empathy, compassion and concern is there? Do they feel?

There could be a myriad of emotions on their side. They could have pity. They could be non-believers, thinking the Survivor is simply being dramatic. After all, if their life was so picture-perfect-white-picket-fence how could someone else’s life have been so bad and no one saved that child or woman? Or they think you just write a great story. Or they get angry because they have a vested interest in you and don’t want to hear anymore because they can’t bear to listen to the injustices. It hurts them, too. Or they simply don’t get it. They just don’t understand because it’s too mind-boggling to them. They’re too closed to open up to understand anyone else because they don’t understand themselves.

We as Survivors tell our stories because we have to. Sometimes the stories just spill out at inopportune times. Sometimes we’re asked about  a particular moment in time so we must explain. Other times, there’s a trigger, and again, an explanation is due. The reactions may not always be positive, in fact, they’re sometimes negative or just shocked faces. Oh well. They asked, we tell.

Recently, a newer acquaintance asked me some questions about something in my past. I answered the best I could. I’m an honest person and have nothing to hide. My mantra is if I don’t tell any lies I won’t have to remember them. So we’re having this conversation and I’m attempting to explain to her what she’s asking. Suddenly she tells me that she thinks I obsess too much on the past and that isn’t any good for me. I started to laugh. I told her that wasn’t true at all. I said that she had asked me questions so I was answering them. She had brought up the past, I didn’t. How was that obsessing about the past if she was the one that had initiated the discussion? She couldn’t answer because she knew I was right.

I don’t sit and think about traumas and all that went on before. Believe me, my PTSD does that for me. It brings my memories back as triggers when I least expect them. I have one dear person I do talk with when I want to about things from my past. We share our stories when we’re in the mood in a healthy way trying to sort things out.

But Survivors are damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I do know we understand each other. When you find another, it’s like finding another soul. Another soul who understands we’re people who might like to look out the window at nothing, who has eyes that are deeper than anyone’s you’ve ever known and someone who has more layers than an onion.

Keep those Survivors close when you meet them. They’re special people. The pain they know and have felt is intolerable to most but they’ve survived and surmounted it. They’re people who can climb mountains now simply because the mountain is there.



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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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…Can You Survive A Psychopath?)

Is there life after spending part of your life with a sociopath or a psychopath? Does a human soul have a chance at renewal again? Will they be able to start fresh, breathe easily and walk with a spring to their step? Maybe. I won’t lie. I won’t pepper this answer with sweetness and pretend that the future holds prettiness, either.

Being with a psychopath if they have created traumatic damage most likely will result in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for their victim. The length of time, the severity of the situation and what the psychopath has done to their victim will determine whether you are now encountering PTSD.

Many abused victims do not seek counsel for various reasons and are not aware that they suffer from this disorder. Because they are not aware they suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they are in limbo-between the abuse that had occurred and the healing that will occur.

Once the victim realizes that they are a victim, they will become a Survivor, and they can move forward. Moving forward is an extremely important step in recovery from a psychopathic personality that will help you to regain your strength and vitality.

I talk about moving forward, but I do not speak of forgetting. I don’t think it’s right when people say victims should forget and move on. Those that tell you those words probably have never experienced a severe traumatic event that has displaced their minds and spirits in a devastating manner. Try as you might to forget, your subconscious will remind you through nightmares and triggers of the horrors that were inflicted upon you.

I said I would not sugarcoat this post. Reality is important in dealing with your own emotions. Although they can be frightening and overwhelming at times, know that you are not alone in your thoughts.

If you have arrived here, you can feel safe in knowing you are not alone. There are many others that have been through agonizing experiences and are climbing the stairwell to their new lives of freedom. Many have succeeded and many others are on their way to success. It is a Journey that only you can make, and you make it yourself.

I say you make it yourself because there were two people involved in the original trauma. One of them is now gone and one of them is now left. The one that is left is trying to distance themselves from the traumas of their past and move forward. Only they truly know what has happened. Only they truly relive what has happened in their minds and nightmares. Only they truly see in the distant corners of their minds when they gaze listlessly out of their windows the terrors that were imposed upon them. And only they can rise above these horrific thoughts.

It may take years. It does take time. If you need professional assistance, seek qualified help. If you feel more comfortable talking to friends, talk to them. If your family is understanding, talk with them. Find someone to talk to about what has happened. Journal your experiences, even if no one will ever read them.

The severity of being with a true psychopath is not something most people can understand. They can listen. They will hear you. They will be astonished. Some won’t believe you.What you try to tell them just doesn’t connect with their realities. Not on a basis with their lives. Not their everyday lives.

Most people will never come across what has happened to you. They have seen these stories on tv, read about them in books, seen them in movies, but they haven’t met the real person. So when they do, the real thing becomes one of several things. You become frightening, incredulous, unreal, intense, a storyteller, a Survivor, a person of strength. It doesn’t matter. You know the truths. That’s what really matters.

Be true to yourself. You should not and can not base yourself on what others think of you and your past. As you slowly evolve, you will find yourself with a new-found strength and will that is stronger and more determined than before. That’s when you know you are succeeding.

I am still surviving one. Daniel is still out there. He is still stalking me. I still find cars watching my home and neighbors tell me about suspicious vehicles parked outside at oddball hours that they have noticed. I have had pictures left for me at my home that only Daniel could own. My dog’s leads in my backyard have been pulled out of the ground, and the chains dissembled into pieces. Pieces of glass have been left in my backyard that my dogs would have been harmed by if I wasn’t vigilant about their safety. I’ve reported the incidents to my police. We can only wait. And we are.

The human mind is a wondrous organ. It is stronger than you may believe. And stronger than the psychopath may believe. Be the Survivor you are.



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…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.



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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD)

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

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

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

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

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

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

A California study, completed in 2000, about “Women, Domestic Violence and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” can be seen here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

When you look into the abyss, the abyss begins to stare back into you. When you are down, is there anywhere to go but up? When all is taken from you, and you feel there is nothing left, do you walk away? After dealing with a psychopath, I have felt a myriad of emotions. I have felt so many feelings. I have been scarred for life by a rapier that has been thrust into my soul and twisted a path of destruction that I wonder if I will ever return to my normal self.

To the public eye, I put on a normal face. Outside the door of my home, when I step outside, I am another person. I tell myself I must be that other person. That is the salvation to my living. I mustn’t allow what has happened to me tear down every vestige of my being where I will become a hermit never to face the real world again.

Inside my home, my world is another reality. It is a place where triggers occur freely. Where my guard is down and my mind is allowed to roam freely. The sadness of allowing this to happen is that the triggers can occur at any time in this freedom. And they do. I try to bat them away. I keep myself busy. I multi-task with an array of things to do, all compiled around me. I’m seemingly always busy, trying to keep my mind free of those other horrible thoughts, while keeping on task of the current projects at hand. But the mind is a curious enigma.

Having been diagnosed with PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I realize that triggers can occur at any time. I realize my sanity borders on a threshold so thin I wish I could reach out to all other women suffering from the hells I am and tell them that they too will survive. I want to tell each and everyone of them that they are so much better than the person that did this to them.  I want them to know that the person responsible for their own PTSD is worth nothing and is equal to the dirt found on the bottom of their boots.


The brain won’t be fooled. Although it tucks away the horrible images, thoughts, ideas and events that occurred in the past with Daniel Smith and his mother Sandra, it won’t forget them. How I wish it could. My brain did forget images and events for a while. At least some of them. And now, as time has passed, slowly, ever so slowly, my brain is allowing some of those images and events to seep back into my memories.

And these memories tarnish my days. They blacken my nights. They cloud my good thoughts of what humanity can be. These memories astonish me that I lived through times so horrific and survived to sit here today to tell this story.

Daniel was a very sexual being, as psychopaths can be. He enjoyed game-playing. He also enjoyed a darker side of game-playing called BDSM, which involved bondage, sadism, and the use of various implements. One night, he had his back turned to me, and I thought he was lighting a cigarette for himself on his nightstand. He quickly turned to me, held me down, and with the use of a paper clip that he had been burning into a red-hot poker, branded me.

He had already fashioned the clip into the shape of a heart. He told me that he wanted to put his heart on my breast to tell me of his love. I’ll carry the brand forever now. I remember screaming, but his hand over my mouth muffled my screams. I was near passing out, and he was telling me to breath deeply. The pain was excruciating.

When he was finished, he examined his handiwork. He was pleased. No questions about my pain. No concern for my pain. His only care was that he had now branded me. He looked at the brand and questioned if it was deep enough, if it would last,  wondering if he should re-heat the metal and brand me again. His eyes were black and unseeing and his voice was more of a mumble as he spoke of what he was doing to me.

Sometime later, when Doc B saw the brand, she questioned me about it. She asked if this was something to be concerned about. Her exact words. I looked at her with open eyes trying to tell her. Daniel was in the room, as usual. I hesitantly said no. There was nothing she could do if I responded no. She knew and suspected back then that something was wrong. In my eyes, I was trying, attempting to tell her something was wrong. Yet Daniel hovered over me, threateningly.

Already two of my parrots were dead. Two cats had died suspiciously. Now in retrospect, none of these deaths were suspicious at all. He was right there when they died. He was the one that announced they had died. I needed to get out of this down-spiraling situation as soon as my body was well enough to take care of itself on its own. I didn’t have anyone to go to for help. I felt helpless, as many women do in these situations.


But I knew the time was coming soon and I had to find help, somewhere, somehow. At that point, I had graduated to using a walker, was beginning to verbalize again, I was learning exercises for brain trauma patients to create new neural pathways. My life was an intense struggle to get away from this man and his mother and I was determined to do it. I quietly worked at what I needed to do to get myself stronger. Somehow, some way, I would walk on my own again. I would talk again. I would get away.



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 Body Heals…The Mind Forever Bleeds.

I cannot hold my readers hostage as my memories hold me. What I have vowed to do is gather my thoughts and educate those in the terrifying world of socializing in any way with a diagnosed psychopath. I stand  with new-found courage and the will to speak adamantly about what I have personally experienced and learned since my association with Daniel, a diagnosed psychopath with borderline tendencies and his mother, Sandra, a diagnosed histrionic narcissitic personality that would disassociate. These two people were diagnosed with a variety of psychiatric illnesses.

It’s difficult. My world now is harrowing. My memories are intertwined not with happy thoughts anymore. Post Traumatic Stress has taken over. What their family and especially Daniel did to me in my past is so horrific I truly don’t believe I can ever lead a happy life again. Sad as that sounds, it is simply truth. I have come to accept my life now and each day I have to accept more.

My mind compartmentalized the terrors I lived through and neatly tucked them away. The human mind is a self-preservation tool. Our brains must be if we are to survive horrific traumas that occur to us. During the time period I was with him, I was a non-believer in the happenings around me at times.

Part of the non-believing occurred because of the physical condition and state I was in because of the motor vehicle accident. My body was straining itself to heal and repair physically. It was going 100% physically to stay alive and maintain its condition. Mentally, there was no time to concentrate on the horrors of my situation. Now, over eleven years later after one of the accidents, Doc B tells me at one point that there were 10 trauma doctors called out for me during one particular instance. She tells me this now, after my body has healed, because she feels my mind can handle the seriousness of what has happened physically. Had she given me information such as this back then, my motivation to survive may have been compromised.

Healed after eleven years, my physical body back to its pre-motor vehicle accident state, my mind is now opening to heal. I thought I had endured mental pain before. I truly believed I had remembered incidents that occurred. My mind was saving me, or I should say, saving the best for last. All those incidents that had seared my soul, that had wrenched my guts, that had ripped my heart out and knocked me down to my knees are coming back. I never knew this day would arrive. I curse it, I cry and beg for these memories to go away. But they won’t. They never will. My mind will forever bleed.

It doesn’t matter who I talk to about the atrocities that have been done. Nor does it matter how many times I repeat the stories. They are still as fresh in mind as when they happened. I cannot change that. Not another soul has been through what I specifically have endured with the Smith family. Other women have endured intolerable attacks and they too suffer as I do. These women write me, thanking me for validating their feelings. For them: this is for you. I understand. I believe you. I feel along with you. You are not alone. There are more of us than you can imagine. There are many silent sufferers, unfortunately. I have chosen to become an outspoken Survivor. I’ll talk for you so you can feel alive again. So you can feel understood again. So you can feel validated. But only if you want me to.

Send me your stories, your thoughts. Tell me how you are surviving. I’ll tell the world how women are surviving. Anonymously.  It’s important to let others know that although we will always be scarred, at times, we can lift above those scars and tell our stories so others can find hope.

Send your stories to : I’ll be looking forward to reading them and posting what my readers have to say anonymously. Thank you.



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