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.

About (the former) Me: A Prelude to the End.

About ME IN CAPTIVITY:

americano

I’m prefacing the final post in this section with this truthful and quite chopped description of myself as the Hostage to my ex-husband “The Ripper” AKA “Mr. Americano”; I am doing this as a means of prefacing the final event, in which I admittedly behaved in An antagonistic and depraved manner, resultant of the triggering event (also found in the final post of this section). I do not intend to try and justify any of my own actions or behaviors, nor downplay my own part in the chaotic lifestyle that led to my traumatic and violent attack; I simply want my readers to better understand my own state of mind and being during the events of my account.

I was a good wife; and, in all the days leading up to getting married to a Monster – I was a good girlfriend to him, hands down. I never strayed; I never acted like a drama queen or behaved jealously. I was submissive, by nature, when he got hold of me and reeled me tightly in on his line through the deceit of his “nice face”. I was happy with being “loved” by the man that I loved. And, boy did I love that Monster of a “man” for a chunk of time out of my life, prior to allowing myself to accept his irreparable and dangerous shortcomings as a human being. Even after handfuls of severe and bone-breaking beatings, I longed to understand him – to somehow heal him from his own horrid past. True story. I felt for him the same as I for everyone around me, for anyone who I love: TOTALLY AND UNDYINGLY. I would be lying if I claimed to hate this man, even now, when he is dead and gone and I should give “Good Riddance” and spit on his grave; I don’t. I can’t. I loved him once; I bore his child. Sacred things don’t dissipate, they just can’t.

My heart was as broken as my face when I actually began to swallow that pill – the reality of my situation and the man who held control over it all; it was a long and harrowing process for me to actually process the information on a conscious level, same as I believe it must be for any Domestic Hostage of a once adored and trusted, now lethally explosive husband. The proverbial Egg Shell description doesn’t even begin to describe the lifestyle of this embodiment of a “flash-frozen”, captive wife/girlfriend, etc…it took me over a year to actually see him for what he was: a Monster with no remorse or capacity for love or compassion; a Sadist and a vicious sexual dominant; the worst mistake that I ever made. The truly unspeakable things he did to me physically became paled in comparison to the ways that he violated and betrayed my heart until it seemed to have disappeared altogether.

I NEVER called the police. NOT ONE TIME.

I can’t explain myself on this matter besides to say: “See? I was afraid.”

Oddly enough, when the event happened and the police had come out because of a neighbor’s call – it made no difference anyway, he cut my throat in front of all of them…and ran away into the trees (just like that creepy fucker Elijah Woods portrays from Sin City).

And well, that was what I wanted to share in advance prior to posting the final piece of the section describing the traumatic and near-death end of my marriage to The Ripper, Boo’s father.