Master List.

You were smart in that you always kept up with my movements one sanctuary at a time; marking each hideout I’d been to off on a master list of sanctuaries for the lost and forsaken. You later told me that you stayed so close on my heels by looking for pancaked spider corpses on the walls of the places you searched; I don’t know if I would’ve thought to do that. You knew me better than I knew myself, at all times.

You found me on a Thursday morning before the sun came up; you didn’t take any chances, and you treated me like you would treat any other escapee who pissed you off and took you on a wild goose chase, wasting your time. When I regained consciousness, I was already back in your display case, all squeaky clean and dressed in a starch-stiffened outfit with a smile painted over my mouth in bright red ink. And… the game started over from the beginning for the millionth time.

Black on Blue.

If you had a clue how it hurts when you cut in,

with your blade ever-sharp, like a spade to my heart, within;

if you felt the fear that I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this person I am,

under this roughed up and broken skin,

I doubt you’d ever be able to hurt me, again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you would sooner beat me than to let me get away,

for just a moment, from the constant hurt and pain,

you’d rather violate me in every imaginable way.

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you broke me down and ground me out through the course of time;

once you knew I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you recognized the kind by which my spirit is defined,

it then became a simple matter of the gradual pass of time,

before it explodes, and you lose your damned mind.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled,

at the hands of your very own beloved,

if your days were so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent your every night being pinned beneath dread,

and your days cleaning wounds all over your swimming head,

I can guarantee that you would have killed me, instead.

When your painful marks cover all of my visible parts,

and you still can’t fight the despicable urge to tear the rest apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done to me in the dark –

when you recognize my terror, so you’re sure to make it smart,

and you have brutality down to a medieval dungeon art,

it’s no wonder my blood runs so miserably slow and dark.

Dear Dead Man.

I must confess,
this note’s addressed,
to you, most evil man,
my own attempted murderer
my, once, beloved husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
the way that you continue to,
assert your unearned place
haunting me via Déjà vu,
black and blued right onto
your own daughter’s face,
I feel obliged to tell you ,
since you don’t have to see,
her eyes like a raccoon’s;
as her dead former “Father”,
free of the burden or bother ,
of any knowledge or attachment to,
what she’s managed to survive through,
yes, you still fucking linger,
a horrid and grotesque harbinger,
well-hidden,
unbidden…
somehow, forgiven through,
a darkly executed ruse,
she’s grown up somehow,
to be just like you,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat on that trouble-free brow,
you must take this lying down;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through,
it’s only fitting,
I wish you were living,
can you believe that I’d say so?
alive just long enough,
to walk in big and tough,
you always liked to think,
there’s nothing that can make,
those lying eyes of yours blink
but if you had to see,
if your eyes had to perceive,
such ruin and atrocity,
the fulfillment of your prophecy
as our own full-grown legacy,
glowing in your luminosity,
broken and battered,
just like you battered me…
the sight would make you blink.

Dear Dead Man.

Dear dead terrorist man,
AKA: my ex-husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
your continued presence in my space,
a circumstance of Déjà vu,
black and blued our daughter’s face,
I thought you should hear it,
since you’re not here to have to,
look in her face,
with her eyes like a raccoon’s;
it’s only fair,
that you be,
burdened,
and bothered…
to learn,
what she’s again been through,
you still fucking linger,
in the carbon atom,
and well-hidden,
unbidden…
forgiven in an innocently executed ruse,
she has your eyes,
impossibly long lashes,
to bat away told lies,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat left for your brow,
you’re gonna have to handle the truth;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through…
I wish you were living,
can you believe I’d say so?
Just long enough,
to walk in all tough,
you like to think,
nobody,
can make your eyes blink,
but if you had to see,
if your eyes,
had to perceive,
such atrocity,
as our own,
smiling baby,
all full-grown,
and battered,
just like you battered me…
you’d die again.

T is for TRUTH.

The room was becoming smoke filled somehow as the discussion wore on in the background of my conscious awareness.

“…we understand that you’re traumatized, you know that we do…”

I’m encircled by the nodding faces of friends that I know definitely care about me; yet, I am becoming transfixed on the shrub well beyond the furthest face – I am teetering at the ‘Check Out’.

“I guess it’s just hard to understand the time involved in your healing process, Danielle got beat up by her first husband…she was dating someone else within a week and a half of her divorce from the creep…”

“Yeah, well Danielle could get the Pope to smack her in the mouth if she talked long enough…”
I didn’t say it out loud, just thought it.

More affected whispers of agreement from all around me – I don’t even know which one of them was speaking at that point of the conversation; I was beginning to feel my cheeks burn slightly, and I recall sitting forward on the low couch in Darcy’s family room and letting out a big sigh of tension. None of my “click” is empathic by nature; although a few have honed the art of pretending to be well enough to fake their way through an afternoon at a funeral. Lisa is the one out of the group that I am closest to, our kids having gone through grade school together. She must have noticed my state of being because she immediately hushed the rest of our girlfriends at once.

“Enough everyone…she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it…let it go…”

Lisa’s head is swiveling back and forth with bulged eyeballs to emphasize her point to them;

“…Leave it alone…”

T is for TWO THINGS:
TERRORISM and TORTURE

The terror that a terrorist instills in the recesses of his victim’s brain is a key element to the very process, even on a micro-scale, of terrorism. Without the dread, fear, anxiety and negative anticipation of an event, there is no terror involved. There can be fear and/or pain without terror, there can be gore and blood and horror also – without terror. Terror is the piece of a trauma that was foreseen by the traumatized in some sense. When you add terror to a situation, everything changes. As I have written about before, terror changes the way that a human being responds to a tragic event as it plays out; and the same goes for those in domestic captivity from one day to the next.
For a long time, I was even baffled by my affected behaviors; and couldn’t really explain to my girlfriends when we would touch on the topic of my “recovery process” – the terror that I still carried with me everywhere I went – even a decade after the near-death event that ended my own captivity/marriage.

When the man that you have married and have children with tortures your body and terrorizes your mind – and you repeatedly see him enjoying each and every scream you let out in pain and suffering under his hand – the world seems a little less inviting afterward, should you survive.
People can’t grasp the notion that I am well-educated and decent looking yet remain recluse and isolated from social interaction for the most part; granted I am fucked up and anti-social to say the least, but even during my Up Swings with my anxiety, I still continue to struggle with finding any TRUE motivation behind entangling myself with others – especially men. People here on my blog often comment on how long it’s been since I was with the Ripper, or even the fact that he is now dead…why can’t I just move on already and be happy with someone new? Why am I still here groveling about my tragic past and the effect it still has on me?
Well, a good starting point to answer this would be: ME.
I survived a highly bloodthirsty and violent sexual dominant who was also a psychopathic murderer and a torturous sadist – my husband. I became his live-in victim day and night; I was kept alive many times not as a result of anything cunning or savvy on my own part, but because my husband new that someone needed to look after our baby – and it wasn’t going to be him. There were many, many times that I barely survived though, and I remember each and every injury inflicted upon my body at the hand wearing a wedding band that matched my own…the betrayal and degradation attached to those years of my life remain immense, even now.
There is, in actuality, a difference between being smacked around by a genetic retard that had too much to drink – and being ritualistically tortured by the man whose last name you have taken. Neither circumstance is right, but one will undoubtedly be much easier to move forward from. I likely NEVER will trust a man like I had the potential to do prior to such an experience…and that’s just reality for me.