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.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?) Part Two

Post #50 spoke of the beginning of the deaths of my pets. It took me 50 posts to pull my courage and strength together to write this series of “They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?”. The legacies of Hendrix, Berwyn, Shortcake, Sabbath, the dead kittens, the decapitated tabby, Thor and all the others always stay in the back of my mind. The cruelty of Daniel and his mother is unspeakable. My tears are sometimes uncontrollable. I have been damaged by these people, yes. But I have also been strengthened by their ruthlessness and callousness.

Daniel’s cousin raised Samoyed puppies. Years ago, I had a Sammy that was a teddy bear with my own children. Yehnsei was a great dog with the kids when they were just toddlers. They would use her as a pillow when they would watch Sesame Street. She was such a gentle dog. When his mother told me about his cousin and her dogs and suggested we acquire a puppy from her, I agreed to take a ride down to her farm.

We drove down and took a look at her dogs. She had two available. The one that I chose was about six months old and seemed well-trained. We brought him home, and he behaved well with my other dog, Sabbath. I had told his cousin we had cats also, and she said that wouldn’t be a problem. Her dogs had been adjusted to cats, also. The new dog seemed to be happy when we brought him in, and he played happily with the cats in our household, also.

I was in another room when I heard a cat screeching. I ran into the second bedroom and found the new Samoyed cornering Shortcake, one of my cats. I thought this would be typical, a new dog discovering a new cat type of thing. Problem was, it seemed he had injured my cat and I had to rush my cat to my veterinarian.

My vet took my cat immediately, x-rayed him, administered tests, etc., and pronounced him ok. He said Shortcake had been through an upset, would need to be watched overnight, could come home but would be fine. I was nervous and upset now about this dog and wanted to return him, but my main concern was about my cat.

I stayed up all night nursing my cat. He seemed to be fatigued, more frightened than anything and I stayed next to him. At about 6 a.m., I decided to take a shower. Shortcake was now sleeping peacefully and doing better, so I felt I could leave him for a few minutes while I refreshed myself. I regret that decision to this day.

After my shower, I opened the bathroom door to find Daniel standing directly outside of the bathroom door. Standing within inches of the door, waiting for me to open it. Quizzically I looked at him, asking what’s wrong. He blurted out, “Shortcakes dead!” Not again, my whole demeanor just slumped. I ran to my bedroom, pushing him aside. There was my Shortcake, lying in his bed, dead. Another dead animal in my home. I had left my cat alone with this man, never thinking, never realizing that he would kill my pet behind my back. Never did I think these thoughts. Never. But it happened. And I’m sorry that I left my animal behind while I took my shower. I never knew that I was leaving my pet in the hands of a murderer. That thought haunts me and brings haunted tears over and over again. The pain that I feel never seems to lessen itself.

Again, a tearful burial was done in the backyard. Tearful on my part, and false tears on Daniel’s part. I don’t know what went through his mind. I don’t even want to imagine. I won’t give credence to any thought that might have gone through his sick, twisted mind. All I know is that my cat was resting finally, I had gone to take a shower, and he used that opportunity to kill yet another of my pets.

Daniel then called his mother, Sandra to tell her the news. Sandra raced to our home. I’m not sure exactly what Daniel told her on the phone, because she was under the impression that the dog had killed my cat. I tried to explain to her that my vet had told me Shortcake was ok, and wasn’t hurt, that he shouldn’t have died. But Daniel gave her the impression that this dog had done enough damage to the cat that something else had gone terribly wrong and  instead, the cat did die.

Sandra then packed the dog in her van and drove him back to the cousin’s farm. She returned the dog, calling it a “killer”. Little did she know it was her son that was the real killer of the animal that had died. Somehow Daniel had convinced her that the dog was responsible. He had used the opportunity at hand to kill. He had psychopathic urges, saw an opportunity to use them and did. I look at all of this now, and writing about it makes me want to hug my animals and protect them with all my might.

Did I realize Daniel had killed Shortcake? Did I see it in his eyes when I opened the bathroom door? I saw some type of gleam there, yes. I mistook the black gleam in his eyes not for the despair of the death of my cat, but it was really for the excitement and the thrill it must have given him to take the last breaths from my cat.

Daniel was out of breath as he told me Shortcake was dead. His eyes were startling black. He was shaking. He was excited. He was moving back and forth uncontrollably. At the time, I interpreted these signs differently.

How do I know these things now? I can’t forget that look on his face then. I’ve seen blackness where his iris is supposed be. I won’t forget the cajoling way he used on the camcorder calling to my cat that he decapitated. His agitated affectness when Berwyn “died”. I’ve heard his low chuckle when he’s either done something or thought something that is morally or socially unacceptable.  I’ve lived with a diagnosed psychopath. I’ve seen their mannerisms. My bones have been chilled by their ways. Now I know.

The American Psychiatric Association‘s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders incorporated various concepts of psychopathy/sociopathy/antisocial personality in early versions but, starting with the DSM-III in 1980, used instead the term Antisocial Personality Disorder and focused on earlier behavior instead of using personality judgements. The World Health Organization‘s ICD incorporates a similar diagnosis of Dissocial Personality Disorder. Both the DSM and the ICD state that psychopathy (or sociopathy) are synonyms of their diagnosis. For more information please go here:

Education about Antisocial personality disorder helps to understand the complexities involved in their personal judgements as described in my posts about Daniel. I am not making excuses for him. I never will. I’ve said before he is a sick man with a twisted mind that has slipped through the cracks of our judicial systems. I don’t believe he can be rehabilitated. I don’t believe that electro-convulsive therapy worked for him. Nor do I believe that medication helped him, other than putting him in a dream-like state where he was asleep 18 hours of the day.



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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…They Kill Your Pets, Don’t They?) Part One

I’ve been talking about my pets in my posts. About how Daniel killed some of them. About how Daniel left me dead kittens in my freezer to find when I was living alone in the house we had once shared. How he decapitated my tabby cat. He and his mother Sandra knew pets and animals were my vulnerability and how animals are my love.

I’ve wanted to talk about a statistic that I read about that keeps people in situations that they might normally walk away from if they didn’t have pets. Why women stay in these horrific relationships for unknown reasons that others can’t understand. They don’t want to leave behind innocent creatures that they know will die. Helpless animals that don’t deserve to be abused and killed at the hands of the psychopaths that women live with.

Before I do, I’ll relate my own stories about what happened while I was living with Daniel. While I was in my situation, in the beginning, I didn’t realize that it had been Daniel that had murdered two of my parrots and two of my cats. I never would have imagined that he would leave me dead kittens in my freezer. Never would I have thought that he and his mother would donate large sums of money to the local humane shelter and then anonymously call me in as an animal abuser.

The parrots had died under suspicious circumstances and my son who was fifteen then happened to be in my home at the time. The parrots were kept in their cages, along with their play pens in the family room. It was a brightly lit room, with two walls of glass windows full of streaming light. An ideal room for birds. I had three parrots at the time, an african Congo, a mini-macaw, and a white cockatoo. The african Congo and the cockatoo I had raised from babies and were hand-fed by me and purchased long before I knew Daniel, while the mini-macaw I had adopted well before I met Daniel also.

My parrots were people-socialized, talked and interacted with my other pets in my household. Hendrix, my beloved cockatoo, even “fed” his nuts to my dog, Sabbath. Hendrix was quite the squawker, quite the jinxter and had seven locks on his cage for when I wasn’t in the home. Once, when I had gone out, I had come home to find him leading the pack of other pets around the house in a line, in a “Pied Piper fashion”. He had opened his cage again, and the other pets were following him around the house. He was quite the boss of the animals in the house and very loving. I adored him, but for his safety, had to secure him with seven locks to make sure he couldn’t get out of his cage and create havoc when I wasn’t home again.

All of my birds were fed a mix of hand-picked parrot food, nuts in season and fresh fruits and vegetables. They enjoyed baths in my sinks and sunning outside when the weather was warm. They snuggled with me, and with other friends that would visit. They were well socialized little creatures.

On this particular day, my son came running upstairs to me and very quietly said, “Congo and Buddy are dead in their cages.” I asked him where Daniel was and if he had told him. He said Daniel was out on the back deck, which was just outside of the family room’s door, and no, he hadn’t told him. I ran downstairs, and there were two of my parrots lying on the bottom of their cages. And there was Daniel sitting right outside of the family room, at the picnic table, looking in.

I reached into each cage to check their vitals and look for signs of anything. My birds were dead. I couldn’t tell how they died. Their necks weren’t twisted or out-of-place. They were just lying there. This seemed so surreal. Earlier in the day, when I had watered them, they were fine. Nothing was amiss and they were happy as they usually would be. Hendrix appeared to be fine. Hendrix, by the way, as a white sulfur-crested cockatoo was a larger parrot than Buddy and Congo with a wing span of probably four feet. Congo and Buddy, by comparison, were much smaller parrots, and easier to handle.

Daniel finally came into the family room. He acted with concern, at least I thought, at the time. He said he had gone in and out of the house through the family room and hadn’t noticed anything wrong. My son and I couldn’t understand how this had happened. Suddenly, two out of my three healthy parrots were dead.  As I said earlier, never did I think Daniel had done anything to hurt them. Now I know better. My son and I have discussed this incident now and we both agree that my parrots died at Daniel’s hands. Parrots need constant care, constant nurture, and a healthy home. They had the best care and environment. I hand-picked their food. I fed them a special diet of vegetables, fruits and special parrot food, along with the types of nuts and seed that each could crack with their beaks. They were sheltered from drafts. Their cages were cleaned regularly. I spent quality time talking with,  holding, and caressing each one daily. They had water sprays in my sinks. But I didn’t keep them safe from Daniel. How was I to know? The bastard feigned sadness and sympathy and stood with me as I buried my birds in special boxes. I cried as I wrapped their bodies carefully and placed them in special boxes. Now I know he was feeling nothing.

The next death to happen was Berwyn, an orange tabby cat that was an ornery fellow. Berwyn had a special illness that would shorten his life span by a few years, but he still had many years left. I had adopted him a few years earlier. He was one of those special cats that had a personality that you remember. Berwyn had pressure on his brain, similar to hydrocephalus, and he would push his head into your chest because it felt good to him. That was ok to me, because whatever made him feel better while he was alive, as long as he wasn’t in any pain, was alright. The vet said he could live for years, and he wasn’t in any pain, but he would push his head against you.

In my living room, somehow, Berwyn had climbed into the ceiling. The home was built in 1846, and the ceiling was 11 feet high. Ber had knocked one of the ceiling tiles loose, and these were the old-fashioned ceiling tiles that were about 8 inches in size. He would walk across the wooden rafters and taunt me, as any cat does its owner. Eventually, quite a few tiles were knocked down by Berwyn, but I somehow didn’t care. I knew he was having fun and they were only tiles that could go back up any time. He was a cat that I didn’t know how much longer would be with me. I guess because I knew BerBer was walking on shortened time, I gave him lee-way in doing things I shouldn’t have let him do, like knocking those ceiling tiles down. But the gleam in his eyes, and the swish of his tail when he saw me would make me laugh. Then Berwyn would roll over and jump into my arms and start purring. I figured let him have some happiness and fun before it was his time to go.

One morning, I had awakened and gone into the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard Daniel yell from downstairs. I came around the hallway from upstairs and looked down. There at the bottom of the stairs was Daniel and all he said was, “Berwyn is dead.” At the bottom of the stairs was Berwyn, lying dead on the floor. As I said before, the vet had said Ber could live for a few years. Suddenly, another death had occurred in my home. Daniel was acting strangely.

He said he had gone downstairs and just “found” Berwyn lying there in the living room “dead”. Here was the odd scenario about Berwyn’s death. Daniel was acting erratically and wouldn’t let me look at Berwyn. He said I wouldn’t want to see him this way. I questioned him why. I’ve seen enough death in my time, and said I needed to see him. No matter what I said, Daniel would not let me see Ber. He had wrapped him up in a blanket and said he was going to take care of the burial. So the opportunity to view the body never presented itself. In the back of my mind, somehow, I knew Daniel had killed Berwyn, but I didn’t want to believe it.

I was still disabled from the accident, still a prisoner in this home.  And now, I was privy to the murders of my pets. There were still more deaths to come.

Please see the following links for more information on domestic abuse and abused animals:






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Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…The Triad & Exposure To The Truth)

I’m sitting in the peacefulness of my backyard with my two dogs, watching them eat their treats out of their specialty toys. I make them mixes of yogurt, peanut butter, cheese and home-made dog biscuits that I stuff into these containers. They lay in the grass quietly, lapping every last morsel from the crevices of these inventions, oblivious to the sounds of the birds and the neighbor’s cats watching them. It gives them focus, adds some healthy food to their diet and aids their gums and teeth. And what does this have to do with psychopaths and their other disillusioned compadres?

I’ve had a rough few weeks. Animals bring us a peacefulness like no other. They ask for nothing in return for the love they give us. They wait adoring at the door for us. They wag their tails, they purr in our laps, they caw and flap their wings in wild anticipation of their owners interaction. They simply love us for who we are and how we behave towards them. They are dependent upon us for their food and water because they have been domesticated by us. In return, we ask that they love us unconditionally. No hidden agendas, no lies, no secret games. Just love shared among species. We can learn much from our relationships with our pets. They need to be nurtured with love and discipline so they will become the best animals they can be. Non-aggressive, loving, loyal, non-demanding, faithful and hope they will step up to the plate to alert us if danger is ever-present.

Violent, hostile and aggressively sick behavior towards animals seen during childhood is one of the three red flags often seen by psychiatrists that point to future criminal and psychotic behavior as adults. When children act out towards their pets, when pets go missing in a household, it is a cry for help and should never be ignored by the parents. This is a behavior that a child will not grow out of and is not considered as experimenting. It is the beginning of the triad of behaviors known as the “MacDonald Triad” or the “triad of sociopathy”. Two other behaviors that are included in this threesome are fire setting and enuresis, or persistent bedwetting after the age of five. There are conflicting schools of thought as to whether hardened criminals that have committed murder and other horrific crimes do carry this triad in their own mental characteristics. For more information on the triad see:

I can tell you that Daniel succumbed to two of the three characteristics according to the stories told to me by both him and his mother, Sandra. At this point, I don’t remember them discussing his bed-wetting incidents, but then again, most men don’t ever want their mothers relating stories about how long they went on wearing diapers or wetting their beds.

When Daniel was about nine years old, he deliberately set a small brush fire in a field near his home. He then pulled a fire alarm near the field, as the story was told to me, so he “could watch the firemen and fire engines come and put out the fire”. As Sandra was relating the story to me, as usual with great relish, she told me how excited little Daniel was about the firemen, and the big engines racing down the street to put out the “little brush fire” he had started.

When it was finally put out, and it didn’t take long, little Daniel went up to one of the firemen and told him what a “grand” job they had done. Apparently, little Daniel had also told the firemen, in his own excitement, that he was the one that had started the fire. The fireman asked Daniel why he had set it. “Because I like fire engines and fires!” little Daniel told the fireman. The fireman admonished Daniel and explained to him the severity of what he had done. He told him that while they were putting out the little brush fire, there could have been a much more serious fire where people’s lives were at stake and he must never do this again.

He then brought little Daniel home to his parents. The punishment? Daniels’s mother apologized to the fireman, they laughed it off (as she told the story) and little Daniel was smacked around again. No psychiatric involvement. No counseling. No wondering what was wrong with this child. Just laughter. And she topped the story off with how he became a volunteer firefighter as an adult because of his fascination with fire. Twisted thinking raising a twisted son. Bizarre rationale. I sit here now and write these thoughts of my times with these two people and still shake my head at how the system failed in recognizing a budding psychopath. How she fooled and flirted her way through so many bizarre occurrences that should have been recorded  on police records and were not.

As an adult, he killed some of my pets. I’ve written about some of them. I’ve written about the dead kittens in the freezer. I still have the pictures he took from when he decapitated my cat. I have the video he left me on my digital camera of the same cat before he killed her when he was attempting to grab her from where she had climbed high on a shelf away from him and he was calling to her. I never look at these items. I can’t. But my mind has never forgotten them. It can’t forget the horrors. My mind cannot forget the look on my cat’s face on the top of the shelf because I know what happened next to her. He decapitated her. He’s a bastard for killing her. My thoughts go beyond hate, beyond disgust, beyond pity for him for what he has done to my animals. There are no words to describe my feelings.

I do know that as a child he didn’t have any pets, except for one dog and for some reason, that one dog was spoken about very little. I can’t say why Sandra didn’t speak much about the dog. I don’t know why she wouldn’t. I have no idea what happened to it, just that there was a puppy for a short time.

So back to what animals bring us. Peace, joy, wonder, happiness. What do they bring to the criminally and psychiatrically insane? A sense of empowerment, a sense of control and a way to bully and vent their inner rage over what is happening to them. If they are abused at home, often, they will take out their frustrations on a helpless animal. This isn’t to say all abused children behave in this way at all. There should be other factors in place, of course. And Daniel had far too many factors from birth and in his environment in place to set his role in motion from the time he was born. Animals would never hold a place in his heart.

He told me of his “beloved” Akita, who had to be put down when he was an adult. Instead of bringing his dog to the vet, he and a friend took the dog out to the woods, and shot the dog between the eyes. Then he created a burial site for the animal in his backyard. Convoluted thinking? Shoot your dog in the head because you claim you can’t afford to pay to euthanize him, then create a burial site for him in your backyard? Sick, twisted, dark thoughts. These are the stories that Daniel and his mother would tell me and believe them to be rational. These are the stories that haunt my soul. Stories such as these never leave you. When I watch my own pets now, I guard them carefully. They are my precious cargo. I don’t ever want to come home again to a decapitated animal. What Daniel and his mother has done to me cannot be undone completely. Some things I will always carry, no matter how hard I try to forget.

I stopped believing in the good of humanity some time ago. I don’t believe in angels anymore. I don’t even know if I believe if there’s any good out there. The Smiths’ destroyed a lot of my heart and no matter how hard I try, the stories of them re-surface to taint my good days. Time has passed and yet some days, it seems as if it was only yesterday.

There are other pet stories that I haven’t related yet, some too painful to write yet. They’ve hardened my heart irreparably. These people knew exactly where to hit me hard and where my vulnerability lie. My question to myself now is should I ever show a vulnerability again? Do I still have any naiveté or wonder of the world left? Or have I stopped smiling at the stranger I pass on the street as a friendly gesture of good morning?

These tragedies have reached my inner soul, and try as I might when the lights go out…the Monsters come out and play. Do we suffer when our demons are better company than the people we call friends and nights we spend tearing hair out and shedding tears are more comforting than those where we suffocate in darkness and solitude?

Don’t preach to me that it gets better if you’ve never walked a foot in my shoes. Don’t tell me that when you’ve hit bottom the only place to go is up if you’ve never faced the horrors of one of these personalities attempting to murder you. When you’re a victim, the unfairness is your reality. And the unfairness is that you became damaged because of an evil person that is very ill.

I know some of  the damaged survive if their wills are strong. I only wish there was enough wisdom out in our society today to address the victims appropriately with the true compassion and understanding they need instead of society giving its fascination to the criminally insane. Let the public beware of both sides, using real words. Let’s not allow psychopaths and their victimization of others become a buzz word of this decade or far worse, something that others might call a slur on the criminally insane. They are very real people who do very real damage to others and they must be identified. The only people who can truly speak the stories about the damage they do are their victims. Let their victims be heard.



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…Red Flags To Look For: Part 2…)

Part One of Red Flags To Look For left off with talking about physical, emotional and mental abuse beginning in a relationship. Where it can start, how it begins. Frankly, it should never start. Any type of abuse in a relationship from either partner should never be accepted. Never. Period. There is never an excuse to accept it.

For some personalities, they do accept it. They find reasons to believe there must be some reason it is happening. Or they feel they must accept it because of exterior reasons. There are many people raised as children in abusive families. Some children raised in an abusive environment have not been able to break the cycle of abuse. Abuse haunts them horribly, as it should. But if it haunts them, then why can’t they take the step to break away from it?

Sometimes the abuse takes on a hidden or masked appearance to the abused. It appears so confusing that you aren’t even aware that a type of emotional or mental abuse has occurred. I’ll give you some hypothetical examples.

The psychopath seems perfectly normal around others, around your friends, around your family. But in private, he is beginning to make derogatory comments directly to you. Not all the time. Just here and there. “I really don’t like the way you wear your hair. I liked it the way you wore it when we first met. You used to look more pretty. Not that you’re not pretty now….” What is he doing? He’s setting you up to knock you down, piece by piece.

You’re talking with each other on a social site. It’s a messenger forum, and before, you’ve always felt good chatting with him. Both of you have laughed, shared stories, teased each other. You tell a joke and suddenly he calls you a name. He tells you that’s not funny at all. “You’re just a smartass, aren’t you today?”  and he signs off without any explanation, leaving you wondering what you said that might have irritated him. Except you didn’t say anything wrong. He’s testing those waters again.

The psychopath begins to lessen your thoughts in his mind as he continues to romance you. In other words, what is important to you, is no longer important to him. His agenda is always what is important. Remember how I spoke of his following you, stalking you in the beginning? He wants to know your every move. If you don’t report in to him about your whereabouts, he isn’t in control. If he isn’t in control, he is in danger of losing his sanity. If he wanted you to text or phone him at certain appointed hours, and you didn’t, what happens? Does he chastise you because you don’t? Does he question you? Ask you if there is someone else? Tell you he can’t sit around waiting for you? Make you feel that he is putting you on the spot? Does he want an immediate explanation of why you didn’t call/text?

There is no reason for any person in the beginning of a relationship to be so demanding. No one, no matter how much you want them, should ever invade your space in this way. Remember, you have a personal life that should stay personal for a designated time until you feel safe enough to share it fully with another. You never have to share every minute of your life with a new person when you meet them, telling them who you are with, where you are and where you go. It’s ok to say you went to work or shopping, but not minute by minute dissertations of your day and the names of the people you spent those minutes with.

Here is another key: when you tell the psychopath about the other people in your life, he dismisses them. They are unimportant to him. He tries to separate and divide. His goal is separate you from anyone close to you. If he can do this successfully, then he gets you all to himself to devour. When he gets you to himself, you have no one to turn to for help. Remember that. Always keep your friends and family.

One of the reasons that the psychopath wants to separate and divide is to stop you from talking about him. He is aware of his behavior. He knows that if you were to discuss the ways that he treats you to your friends and or family, it might bring up red flags to someone. Someone might question the way he is treating you. If someone questions the way he is treating you, you might question the way he is treating you. And through all that, the relationship might just end. Successfully end. The end of that psychopathic relationship. Thus, the psychopath tries to divide and conquer to prevent this.

Ignoring that he hurt you. Perhaps he told you he didn’t like your outfit, but then said “oh never mind, it’s ok.” The original hurt feeling is still there. Maybe he did hang up on  you abruptly and never said another word about it. Maybe he called you a slut without provocation. Simply because he didn’t know where you where and asked if you where out “whoring around”. Then when he sees your anger or confusion or frustration, he ignores it. But still romances you. You are still getting the attention.

Herein lies the confusion. How could he call me those names? How could he chastise me yet still romance me? How? Because a true psychopath has no remorse, no empathy, no feelings, no emotions. It’s all a set-up. These are the red flags again. 

Red flags that you might brush away, blinded by his romanticism, (remember-it’s all orchestrated for you specifically), red flags that you might discuss with your friends and family but if he has managed to divert you from them you no longer have them as a support to discuss these issues. If the psychopath has managed to conquer and divide, he has you at his will. Do not ever let him do this to you in the beginning of a relationship when you see these manipulative emotional abuse patterns begin to emerge.

Daniel  and his mother Sandra exhibited all of these red flags when I met them. I didn’t realize what was happening. I had never met anyone like them. They are slick, they are cunning, they are manipulative people. They are true psychopaths. His mother was proud of his actions as a psychopath as a normal mother would be proud of a son’s accomplishments had he won the Nobel Peace Prize. This family was one sick group of people. I learned the hard way, and I’ve been lucky so far to get out from under them.

Part Three will discuss yet more red flags.



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