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…Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD.)Part 2.

In the preceding post of “Dead Kittens In The Freezer and PTSD”, I alluded to something horrific with the title of “Dead Kittens”. I began the post by talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and giving my readers a variety of background resources to read and cull information about PTSD so they could familiarize themselves about this relentless enigma that haunts many people.

The good psychologists, counselors, doctors and psychiatrists of today that realize PTSD afflicts women that have been in domestic situations that have been abusive in some way are walking angels in my opinion. They give credibility to those people who have suffered at the hands of psychopaths, sociopaths, narcissists, Cluster B personalities and the likes of these types of disorganized people.

I’ve spoken about who places the guilt on people in these types of relationships in a former post, called ”

Survival Of A Psychopath(With Borderline Tendencies…Abuse Of Power Results In Guilt For Whom?)”.

It seems many people still turn a blind eye to the truly guilty party in these relationships, blaming the victim for just being in these types of relationships. Blaming the victims, as if she or he would actually want to languish as a prisoner would in a cell . That type of thinking is not preposterous, it is ignorant. For those types of believers, that is one of  the reasons I have decided to tell my story in as much detail as I can.

Some of my stories are not very pretty. They are downright ugly. They are the workings of an evil mind called Daniel and his mother, Sandra.  If I had not lived with these two people, I would have thought this story to be the work of a good fictional writer. But they are not.

As I say often enough to people, I am here telling you this story for a reason. So others may find hope. So others may learn about psychopaths and the assorted twisted personalities I talk about. So others may realize that they too, are Survivors or can be Survivors. It is not easy remembering these events to put on paper. It is exhausting. But they are a story to tell.

On with the story of the dead kittens…

I awakened one morning quickly, sitting straight up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open, staring at my dogs who were ever faithfully watching and protecting me. Fifteen minutes later, I was able to finally begin to breathe at a normal rate and take a few deep breaths. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, brushed my damp hair back, and backed myself up against the headboard. How long will this go on? How many times will I nightmare the horrendous occurrences of time spent with Daniel and/or his mother Sandra?

This time the nightmare was about time spent after the judge had ordered him out. Daniel ate meat and I did not, so I was giving it to a friend’s son who had just moved into a new apartment with his girlfriend. My friend’s son came over to help me clean out my freezer of the meat. I figured it would be better for him to have it since he was just starting out and young in his twenties.

As we were emptying the shelves, we finally reached the top one at the back of the freezer. I saw these two bags that resembled mailing type bags stacked in the back. I knew they didn’t belong in there and suddenly my stomach lurched.

Call it premonition, say it was an educated guess, as I said, postal mailing bags didn’t belong in the freezer section of my refrigerator and I had not put them in there. The only other person with access where I wouldn’t see them putting something in there was Daniel. So many unnatural occurrences had happened already, and I just knew this was going to be one of his disgusting, twisted thoughts left for me.

Billy must have seen the look on my face and said to me that the two bags don’t belong there, do they? No, I responded, very uneasily. He said he would grab one and I could take another but don’t open them, rather, to wait. His mother had told him of my situation with Daniel so he was aware of the strange happenings in the house already.

The bags were about 11″ by 14″. We were each holding one but hadn’t opened them yet. Somehow we knew whatever was in these two bags wasn’t good. Billy peeked in his bag, and quickly grabbed mine. “You don’t need to see”, he told me as he took my bag out of my hands, “Daniel obviously wanted to leave you something to freak you out”.

I did want to see tho and asked what was in the bags. Reluctantly, Billy opened the bags for me.

Each bag contained two dead kittens, about 8 weeks old. Where Daniel got these kittens, I have no idea. He probably conned an unsuspecting person that was advertising free kittens and told them he was going to give them as a gift. Somehow he managed to collect four. Knowing that he killed them disgusts and horrifies me. The image is indelibly etched in my mind forever of Billy and I standing in the kitchen of the Chelsea Avenue home holding two manila envelopes containing 4 dead kittens that Daniel had planted in the freezer for me to later find at some point when he thought I would be alone.

I can still see those little babies, white with little flecks of black in their fur. At least that was one of them in one of the bags that Billy allowed me to see quickly before I collapsed in a chair. I’m sure my face said it all to him. How he killed them, I don’t know. But the number of animals found dead in my home was growing. Daniel had killed my parrots, decapitated a cat, and two other cats mysteriously died in his presence.

The police, of course, in their reports, listed the deaths as circumstantial, even tho another person who did not live in the household discovered them with me. Since I did not see Daniel actually put these kittens in the freezer, they were considered circumstantial evidence. Everyone who heard the story knew Daniel had killed these defenseless animals.

Upon interviewing me, my reactions were obvious to law enforcement. I was distraught, horrified and disgusted. Daniel, in comparison, had already been diagnosed a psychopath with borderline tendencies, with antisocial disorder and bipolar. He was sneaky and cunning and hard to catch. He was also usually MIA when the police would go looking for him. If found, his reactions were usually flat and emotionless as if they were practiced.

Billy, an animal lover also, took the kittens home and buried them. He was as horrified as I. We never mentioned the kittens to each other again.

What pleasure did Daniel derive in killing these defenseless animals? Where did he get them? I won’t even guess. But animal torture is an indicator in the personality traits of the psychopath and those afflicted with some of the disorders mentioned above. So that particular day, Daniel not only derived personal pleasure in killing defenseless creatures but also in mentally torturing me.

Yet the judicial system would tell me if I didn’t actually see him kill the animal, then there was nothing they could do. Circumstantial evidence. The psychopath cunningly does his pleasures for his own needs, yet slips through the cracks of our own society. These are only markers for Daniel, signatures of his. And animal abuse is one of the signatures of a psychopath.

Other signatures of a psychopath along with generalized information:



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 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.