Stop Those Green Men!

So one evening I’m laying in bed watching tv with him and he turns to me with this look of desperation and pleading in his eyes and says, “Stop those Green Men! Please! You know how to make them go away!”  I side-ways look at him, thinking he’s joking or god knows what, but he’s not. He’s dead-serious. Really dead-serious. There’s this look of timidity in his eyes that I had rarely seen.

So I ask him where the Green Men are. He points to the bottom of the bed. He starts cowering under the covers. His body is beginning to tremble. His eyes are luminous as he’s alternately staring at me and the foot of the bed. He keeps begging me to get rid of them, because only I can.

So I decide to pretend that I do see these Green Men. After all, if he thinks I have power over them, and they have power over him, well, you do the math here. He’s freaking out, hiding under the covers and I’m talking to airspace sternly, asking them why they’re here for Daniel. I finally point at “them” and tell “them” to leave so he can come up for air.

That seemed to placate him, altho he still hid under the covers for awhile and then finally went to sleep. So now the psychopath was seeing things-people. In his mind, I could get rid of them. Like I’ve said before, his mind was interesting. But the Green Men was a new addition. He was getting worse, making my time shorter.

I had been planning on escaping, but now I had to up everything in timing. None of this was easy, it never was and still isn’t. It just gets easier now when I have to recall it. At least I’m not as wiped out as before. Now it’s more of yeah, that happened, I survived kind of thing while the other person looks at me strangely not understanding why I’m not locked up or an addict dulling my pain.

I’m not doing any of those things because I won’t let him take me down. The only person that can do that is me. He’s just not worth it. I’m too busy living my life, and I have a huge bucket list with a life to live ahead of me. Too many years were wasted while I had to recuperate in a wheelchair from the accident he caused trying to murder me, then years as a hostage in my home under his mother and him while they alternately poisoned and took care of me. I fought my way out and I’d do it again. Like I said, the only person that can take me down is me.

Peace.

Sorceress

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

 

 

 

Advertisements

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.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

 

 

How To Survive Narcissists.

I detest poinsettias. Those red flowers that pop up in Christmas and holiday decorations this time of year that so many people love. Why? My mother used to hang these poinsettia decorations from the front windows. Maybe. If she was in the mood. I used to sit and wonder if any decorations would be put up with that ball in my stomach each year

You see, whether or not the poinsettias went up was blamed on me.  Christmas decorations had to be hung up for children, I would be told, and the neighbors had been asking her about my excitement about the impending holiday. So, she was forced to decorate all because of me. It was my fault that she had to go through this decorating and un-decorating.

She’d look at me with those ice eyes of hers, complaining about the tree and how regardless of whether it was a real one or a fake one, it was still trouble. A real one dropped needles on her carpeting and a fake one was a pain to put together. Forget decorating the tree. No matter where I attempted to hang an ornament, it didn’t work. And those silver icicles? I always put them on wrong. They were fronds of silver icicles that you threw on a tree, how could you put them on wrong? The Ice Woman found a way you could. Oh Lordie, how half of me hated Christmas and the other half didn’t because I wondered if I would get any presents.

For her, the tree had to be perfect. Her definition of beauty was not seen through a child’s eyes. You know how a child decorates with lopsided ways? And their favorite home-made (which I never did) or school-made ornaments were always front and center because they should be? To the narcissitic Mother, that doesn’t happen. She wants perfection in her eyes that will bring accolades to her. But if they don’t, well, hell hath no fury like her.

Once you come to the realization that you are a child of a Narcisstic parent, it opens a world of doors for you. The Universe suddenly looms larger than life. Doors open and shut. The realization that I had a narcissistic Mother has taken me decades. The fact that I was being raised in a dysfunctional household I realized somewhere in my middle school years. The dawn of awakening of the full impact of all the damage did not come until my 40’s. Until that time, I was living in a world as another person that had been shaped by the tyrannical escapades of her.

She had died years earlier, but her legacy lived on. It had lasting effects on me. The one place it did not claw through to was my children. I am not sure why or how, but I have not raised my own in the manner she raised me. I was very careful not to behave in the manner she did when I was raising my children even to the extent of going overboard in the opposite direction. When they were very young, she would visit with my father, and she would make snarky comments about my oldest. He was a toddler at the time and my daughter was a baby. Then she would laugh at her comments. I’d turn to her and tell her to be quiet about her grandson, he’s perfectly normal and if she didn’t have anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all. She would continue, saying I didn’t have a sense of humor. I would tell her if that’s all she had to say, then I didn’t want to listen to her, and walk away. And I would. I wanted to protect my children from her. She would ignore my infant daughter, which was fine by me.

But at family parties, she never made these comments about my children. Instead, the accolades were made. The compliments would be told. The smiles and loving hugs given. All bs. Because behind closed doors no one received smiles and hugs or even an “I Love You” from her.

But, that’s life with a narcissistic person. So, how do you go on? How do you break away? How do you compartmentalize the pain they have caused you for so many years? Is there guilt and if there is, what do you do? How do you survive a narcissist?

Only you can make a decision to walk away. Walking away can be forever, can be for the day’s conversation or can be for a few hours. Regardless, it can give you strength over their words. It can lay the foundation for your future survival in this type of relationship. If you feel guilty over walking away from your parent, don’t. Do they feel guilty over making you feel like a twisted ball of twine? You shouldn’t feel guilty being a victim of someone with an illness.

The most difficult part of dealing with the realization of admitting you have been a victim of a narcissist is now dealing with the pain and attempting to put it away (for the most part). You must compartmentalize it. No one will help you to do that because only you were the one that was originally hurt. There are some that won’t believe you because they didn’t see it happening in the family. But, you know the damage that occurred, and that’s what’s important. As you deal with those issues that you remember, put them up on an imaginary shelf, mark them closed and take a deep breath. Remember that you were the victim and it’s you that is now receiving compensation in the form of new-found happiness, relief and the ability to breathe easier.

Each little task you do for yourself brings you one step closer to being a full-fledged Survivor and that’s a wonderful feeling. You can do it. You’ve survived this long under them, you can survive over them. It’s time for you now.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

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

I own a 6 piece set of antique press-back farm chairs. They have cane seats. Over time, the caning needs strengthening. When I lived with Daniel, I had noticed that a few of the seats needed work, so I decided to send them in to an antiques dealer I knew that specialized in working with antique furniture. She and I had built a relationship over the years and I had bought many items from her antique store.

It was only the cane work that needed strengthening. None of it had loosened, it was just sagging. I had called her and described the chairs, some of which she was familiar with because I had purchased them from her. She told me to bring them in and she would take care of them. Not a problem at all.

I told Daniel to bring them to the antiques dealer showroom for repair. He packed them in the back of his truck securely and left. Or so I thought. Somewhere between my home and the antique shop, a short distance of a few miles, Daniel made a destructive decision.

Later I received a phone call from the antiques dealer. She was very distraught. She told me the repairs on the chairs would be extensive. She asked why I hadn’t described the damage more accurately. After all, she said, both of us knew each other for so long, there was no reason to hide anything.

Hide anything, I questioned. What was I hiding? I told her that the seats were sagging where the cane inserts were placed. That’s what needed to be repaired. She hemmed a bit, and seemed upset. At the time, I was confused by the phone call. I had sent antique chairs in with Daniel with seats that had only sagging cane work, and yet I was being told in a mysterious phone call that my chair repair was going to cost far more than I had anticipated, take much longer in time and somehow I felt as if I was the one being blamed for the damage to the chairs.

I should add that this happened during the time I was non-mobile, still wheel-chair bound from my motor-vehicle accident. I was not able to drive, so I could not go directly to the antique dealer to visualize for myself and see what she was talking about. I was literally stuck at home. Still a prisoner. Still a captive of the Smith family, not yet aware of what they were doing behind my back. I was to found out a few years later.

The antiques dealer did not sound very friendly as she usually did, as a matter of fact, she told me Daniel was there with her while she was talking to me. Since I was unaware at the time of what he was capable of doing, I had absolutely no idea of what really was going on at that moment in the antique dealers store. I would later found out.

It took months for me to get my chairs back. I would call and ask how the repairs were going, and was told various stories. They were back-logged, they were on vacation, etc., but never the truth at the time. Finally, about six months later, I received my chairs. One, in particular, was never fully repaired. The wood seat on it had been broken. I was upset. Daniel told me he had argued with the antiques dealer about their work, but to no avail. I later found out that was his lie.

Roughly four years later, after Daniel was out of the house, I visited this antiques dealer. I was determined to find out what had happened with my chairs. That conversation still set in mind as one that was out-of-place, as mysterious.

What she told me that day still haunts me and I don’t know why Daniel did what he did. But I do know that she was frightened by him. I understand now that she was frightened when she called me for her own reasons when he was standing in her store. I can imagine why. I don’t know the exact words he told her why the chairs were in the condition they were when he brought them in. But I do know who he said was responsible for their demise.  Which would make sense as to her hesitance in speaking with me. She was told I had a very serious anger problem and damaged/destroyed things.

At first, she was slightly hesitant to talk to me. She remembered the chairs. She, of course, remembered me. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years. I couldn’t understand why she was behaving in such a stand-offish manner. I would understand after she told me her story.

She told me he brought her chairs that were in pieces. None of them were in usable condition. Not only was the cane split apart, but there were posts broken, legs broken and damage beyond what she had ever imagined. She had been horrified. She could never imagine (me) her client asking her to repair such work.

My face, as she told me this story, was one of stone cold silence. All the pieces of the puzzle had been coming together at that point in 2006 about things Daniel and his mother Sandra had done. This was just another to add. She realized as she told me this that I had nothing to do with the breaking of the chairs. She knew at this point that I was no longer with the psychopath, that I was attempting to find clues to answer questions. Since she and I had known each other for many years, she trusted in me at that point to be honest enough to tell me what had actually happened that day years before.

She said at the time she felt powerless, frightened and somewhat intimidated with him standing there telling her to call me about the chairs. That explained her strange phone call. She really didn’t know what to say in front of him, alone in her store. She said she had felt very uncomfortable. The antiques dealer told me there was a strangeness, a coldness, a black look in his eyes. She said he seemed odd, and made the hairs on her neck stand up. But she took the chairs in for repair and did the best she could. We didn’t talk much about anything else. I could still see that discomfort and uneasiness in her eyes.

Little did she know that at that time she was staring down the eyes of a true psychopath. One that had just broken antique chairs for his own pleasure. Chairs that he had just told another he was packing securely to bring to an antique dealer to have repaired. Somewhere between the home and the antique store he had stopped off the road, and taken time to deliberately break and destroy six chairs into pieces. Then carry these pieces into her shop and calmly tell her a story about a woman she had known for years destroying the chairs. What the psychopath doesn’t realize is that their eyes give them away. When they are at the height of their episodes, their eyes take on such a coldness, such a black void, it is almost compelling to watch. Once seen it is never forgotten.

I wonder how many people who I once knew did Daniel make feel this way behind my back. It’s what these men do. It’s how they separate their prey. It’s how they keep women isolated without the women knowing it’s happening. They tell lies, they manipulate stories, they twist the truth. Those who know you are told stories of deceit to make them doubt you, to mislead them, to draw them away from you. Your friends, your acquaintances are misled, just as the original woman is, by the psychopath, who is skilled at manipulation. Whether through lies,  intimidation or outright fear tactics, the psychopath uses his skilled tactics to separate and isolate people. It’s his means of survival.

It could be your demise if you don’t realize it.

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.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…2013 Brings A New Beginning…)

ImageWith this new year, many bloggers have posted their thought of resolutions and good tidings for others. I, too, want the same for many. And this year, I want peace for myself.

There are many reasons to be thankful. I have survived a horrible relationship and can still attempt to be in another. That’s reason to give thanks. Some tell me they are amazed that I would even want to try. I believe that’s human nature to want companionship. Although my idea of human companionship is somewhat stilted by my scope of what has happened in my entire life I’m still willing to give it a try.

By no means am I perfect. I set very definite parameters when I begin dating someone. And these parameters are exceedingly strict. For someone my age, they might even seem Victorian in nature. Although my soul can be passionate in nature, I tell any prospective partners that any promiscuity is not on the table at all in the beginning stages of the relationship. I don’t need to be boggled down with intimacy problems while I am attempting to learn about one’s soul and mind.

Is that something that the psychopath has done to me? Or is that something that society has fostered in me? I grew up with a hippie attitude, my individualism unchecked, free to explore. I’ve always felt that what two people do consensually together is right. I still do. I also know that many women feel the only way to keep a man or to attempt to hold on to him is through their bodies. And that’s just not me. I believe your body is your vessel. But that goes both ways and for both genders.

The psychopath destroyed a part of me that made me love intimacy. Part of me knows how another person can fake intimacy so well. How they can take what is supposed to be something special and twist it into something ludicrously fake. So I learned to hold back. And never want to trust another human being again. I look in the eyes of others and wonder how, if ever, can they be trusted.

I’ve been struggling with this concept for a number of years. This year I’ve decided to not struggle so hard with it anymore. I’m not going to allow what has happened in the past alter my future so precariously.

Which is not to say that I’m going to blatantly trust anyone again. I’m not. By no means, I’m not. They will have to earn my trust, step by step, inch by inch. And if they’re not willing to do so, that’s their loss. Because I’m worth it. I’m worth every step, inch by inch. I know it. And they should realize this. They should take the time to realize this.

If they won’t, if they don’t, if they can’t? That’s their personal casualty and a red flag to me.

It shows me that they aren’t worth my time and effort. That they aren’t willing to give another human being the time and effort to see within them like I am. If that’s the case, I’m just as happy to spend time with my pets, my family, and my friends. I don’t need to seek out the companionship of someone that can’t emotionally attach themselves without hidden agendas.

Emotions should be real. Feelings should be felt. Communication should be expressed. These are all items that I have had the luxury to think about over the last few years and toss in my mind, crumble into pieces and decide just how I feel they should be interpreted in a significant relationship. An honest relationship takes time, it doesn’t happen overnight. If it’s real, it will be there a year from now. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

The psychopath will give you many reasons to disbelieve yourself and your immediately burgeoning feelings. He will attempt to sway your thoughts towards him. He will make you swoon immediately and tell you there is no one like you. He will tell you things about yourself that you thought no one ever could say. The love he declares for you is quick to his point but not to yours. Simply because the game he is playing is his. The heart he holds in his hand is yours, never his. Because he doesn’t have a heart. Always remember that.

So as 2013 begins, I look refreshed to this year. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. My life is good. I have a new outlook. I’ve recovered from the MVA 110%. Although that was one of Daniel’s attempted murder attempts on me, I survived. I survived miraculously. From a wheelchair, to a walker, to canadian crutches to just being myself again. I survived him wielding a butcher knife to my neck. I endured sexual abuse that no woman should ever have to face. My homes have been invaded, my personal possessions stolen, my identity stolen, my pets murdered in cold blood. All at the hands of a diagnosed psychopath that should have been locked up years ago and has slipped through our feeble system. All of that is slowly fading now, albeit it seems it was yesterday at times. Post Traumatic Stress will always be with me, I cannot change that. But I can move forward day by day and spit back in his face.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Seeing Daniel’s Black Eyes Again…)

“He will choose you, disarm you with his words, and control you with this presence. He will delight you with his wit and his plans. He will show you a good time, but you will always get the bill. He will smile and deceive you, and he will scare you with his eyes.  And when he is through with you, and he will be through with you, he will desert you and take with him your innocence and your pride. You will be left much sadder but not a lot wiser, and for a long time you will wonder what happened and what you did wrong. And if another of his kind comes knocking at your door, will you open it?” —From an essay signed, “A psychopath in prison.”  excerpted from Without Conscience, Robert D. Hare, PhD.

What is the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath and all other clinically diagnosed abhorrent personalities? A psychopath is born the way he is and cannot be changed. A simple premise. Born that way, stays that way, dies that way. Nothing will ever change him. No matter the environmental trappings of a good family, the education, the loving parents, the therapies he will try, the shock treatments. The recidivism rate is nil. He will still have psychopathic thoughts. What he decides to do with those thoughts is another story.

He can be a murderous psychopath or a corporate psychopath. Either way, he will play with fire (your mind-the minds of the masses) and not look back. He doesn’t have the empathy to care. His emotions do not allow him to have real feelings. He can only have pretend feelings that he has learned to parrot back at his victim(s) for their temporary belief that he is normal. His emotions are never real.

His eyes, borne of black glass, cannot change their true color. Imagine a vehicle with windows that are tinted dark black that does not allow others to see into the vehicle. Knock on the window of the car, and the owner hits the switch at will to lower the window to talk to you. At their will only. That’s when you have the opportunity to see the person. Only if they hit that switch do they allow you to see them. Hit the power button and the window closes. Your vision of them is gone again. These are the eyes of the psychopath. The dark, cold, black eyes of a true psychopath.

His image in the looking-glass may be that of a chameleon. He is a man who wears many hats and dons many coats. His purpose in his life is to manipulate his victims and prey that he has chosen. His obsessions.

His lies are his own truths. His truths are his own beliefs. His beliefs, if countered for accuracy and honesty, are often switched for other stories and lies that he can easily manipulate into his life for his audience. He believes his own words as they spew forth from the twisted lobes of his brain.

He is a sycophant. He aims to please his audience, but not for their pleasure…only for his. And ultimately, that pleasure will bring his audience devastating mental, physical and emotional damage. How do I know this? Because I am the victim and the survivor of one. I’m still waiting for the ending.

A psychopath is good at what he does. He fools many. Over and over and over again. The people that he deceives fall into many categories and include not only his victims, i.e. his significant other. He manipulates and lies to law enforcement, to the judicial system, to attorneys and to whomever he pleases. The world is his playing ground for his web of lies that he truly believes. He is convincing when he pitches his case to a new contestant in his game.  If that person is truly unaware of the scope and magnitude of a diagnosed psychopath’s behavior and mental prowess, they will succumb to his lies.

If you have been conned by one, don’t consider yourself weak. Not the first time.  They have had years of practice honing their art. You are new in his game. There is no comparison at who would win the first time.

But there is something to be learned from his game. Don’t walk away from a psychopath without anything gained. As a  famous quote reads, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me”. Once you have learned the subtle nuances, the quirks and the patterns of the psychopath, remember them. Then remember to apply those thought patterns to people you meet in your future. If certain new people fit the full categories, if there is factual proof or they give you red flags, walk away. Never stay a victim.

Is this hyper-vigilance? Perhaps. Maybe. Yes, it is. Ensconced in the folds of a true psychopath’s brain, twisted and manipulated in ways that you thought were true emotions only later to find are simple lies designed to create a situation for their desires, you never forget the black void of darkness that you struggle so valiantly to climb from every day to escape the horrific memories they have tortuously created for you.

Dr. Robert Hare feels that 1% of the population is comprised of psychopaths. “He calls them “subclinical” psychopaths. They’re the charming predators who, unable to form real emotional bonds, find and use vulnerable women for sex and money (and inevitably abandon them)… A significant proportion of persistent wife beaters, and people who have unprotected sex despite carrying the AIDS virus, are psychopaths. Psychopaths can be found in legislatures, hospitals, and used-car lots. They’re your neighbour, your boss, and your blind date. Because they have no conscience, they’re natural predators…” more information can be found at :  http://www.hare.org/links/saturday.html.

I saw Daniel recently. I stood next to him court. I looked into his black eyes again. This time I saw a myriad of emotions shooting as if they were darts at me. To coin another expression-“If looks could kill”- would be an appropriate one. I saw hatred.

When I originally entered the courtroom and signed in, I turned towards the seating and walked to a row of empty seats, not realizing where he was sitting. There he sat, in the third row, right towards the area where I was walking. His eyes followed me as I walked towards the back of courtroom. He sat slumped in his chair, head on his hand, glaring sideways at me.  Pure hate emanating from his cold eyes.

My luck, the only seats left were right behind him. I sat in the last row, behind him and the woman he brought with him. She turned to look at me, and then to stroke his now shaved head and adjust the collar of his leather Harley jacket. He didn’t move a muscle while she mothered him. He kept his eyes forward and would not address her.

I felt his darkness again. Unfathomable darkness. I saw evil workings behind the darkness. I saw anger sparking. I know Daniel. I know him very well. The longer he sat in the courtroom, the more agitated he became. He couldn’t sit still and left the room several times while waiting for the case number to be called. The woman he brought attempted to calm him, but he consistently shrugged her off, keeping his mind focused it seemed on the matter at hand.

I waited patiently with my daughter, who had driven me so I could review my documents while we talked in the car. My daughter, with a degree in criminal psychology, had accompanied me to be my witness. While I could not look at him and observe him the entire time, my daughter was able to pay close attention to his behaviors along with the behaviors of the woman he had brought. My observations on this post and the next are conclusions from both my daughter and I.

Next, the explosive actions of Daniel in the courtroom.

Peace.

Sorceress.

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