The Trigger (Cut-Throat Club).


PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT THIS MAY BE DISTURBING FOR  SOME READERS; CONTINUE ACCORDINGLY.

FOREWORD:

Recently, several people who have only been reading or following my blog since the opening of Beasts of Articulation and/or Kindred Words opened up (almost a year ago, now…wow), have sent me private messages inquiring about my “story”. I realize that as a writer, I am all over the fucking place with my posts; and that the content of my blog is generally confusing as fuck to someone who just happens upon it, as a result. I know many of you do not care to read my “story” again, and I apologize to those of you who don’t. I am posting The Trigger once again in attempt at killing a bunch of birds with the one stone, because I am lazy. Anyway, for anyone who is reading this for the first time, THIS is the story of my final injury at the hands of my ex-husband (a now, deceased psychopathic murderer who fathered my only child); and it marks the beginning of my own re-birth and reconstruction, a process that I am continuing to wade through, even now – over a decade later. I have had 29 major surgeries, spent far too much time stuck in-hospital for chunks of mine and my daughter’s lives (collectively, about 4 solid years), and was scarred just as much on the inside as I am on the outside, if not more lastingly. I do not post this for sympathy or pity from anyone who reads it; simply as an explanation to the many pieces of my blog that come across as incomprehensible to someone who is not aware of my own experience thus far in Life.

As my story goes, I am an animal lover, and strive to make any animal as happy as it has the capacity to be; I am a die-hard advocate for domestic violence aid and for the many, many victims of marital terrorism; I am a die-hard advocate for the rights of children in such situations, as well. Sadly, we each know someone who is in a situation very similar, if not the same, as my former circumstance became by the time it reached its tragic ending; I am unbelievably lucky that I am not a long-dead statistic of domestic violence, and my hope is that by sharing my own history, I will help at least one other human being. Thank you, in advance, for your understanding.

 

In some ways, the triggering event was as horrifying as it might have been if she had discovered the lifeless body of one of her own children in that garage – HIS garage – during the earliest hours of the morning on the day of her near-death.

In other ways, it was somehow much, much worse.

The day before had been a bad one – a nasty beating and the brain fog that always accompanied them; there had been a lot of ugliness spat in her direction several times before dinner, and during the meal that she had begrudgingly cooked for him (her appetite had become non-existent and he made sure that she was perpetually dope-sick), she had sat across the table from him with her eyes on the floor, in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable explosion that she had come to sense brewing and building beneath her husband’s skin.

By this stage of her “captivity”, the woman was allowed individual companionship with five living souls: The Ripper, Boo, and the woman’s three dogs – Sarah, Ozzy, and Vegas. This night, as the tension grew thicker by the bite of food stuffed into her husband’s mouth, it was Sarah, a chow-pit-bull mix that had come into this tragic situation alongside of a once-braver, stronger and more capable version of her caretaker: as an innocent – who lied loyally at the feet the woman’s defeated body, beneath the table on high alert. The dogs were each honed well to the man’s moods also; acting as canine tools that had undoubtedly helped the woman survive in the past.

Directly following his dinner, her giant husband went outside momentarily; and during this brief period, the woman got down on the floor to scratch some neck and belly – a luxury that, outside of him, the monster of a man she had married allowed her ONLY to share with these ever-faithful beasts.

It had at that time that her husband came back in through the back door, and she could tell from the sound of his steps that he was coming for her; she never knew why. Everything had happened so quickly: his boot to her belly, then head – repeatedly; any sense of true consciousness became likened to a strange swirling sensation that drifted drunkenly up and down with the motion of smoke trying to suspend itself in air…she notably forced herself to stay with the pain – to stay awake in defiance, to NOT let him knock her out unconscious again (a gamble of the outcome to a circumstance in which she lost consciousness was not one that typically landed the odds in her favor).

She dazedly heard yelling, clicking and cusswords; growling, snapping and cracking sounds.

It wasn’t until a much later time (years later) that the woman would recall the image of her terroristic spouse exploding at Sarah as well, for vainly trying to protect her. Sarah was a beautiful creature, one that died for her unwavering loyalty to the woman.

BUT, THAT EVENT HAD BEEN YESTERDAY…

It was after she finished cleaning up the bloodied back of her head under the tap in HIS garage, and turned to leave, that she saw Sarah’s body on the dirt floor – semi-covered by a canvas tarp – beaten to death. THIS had been the event that changed everything very quickly, as the guilt and sheer self-loathing that followed this discovery consumed the woman within a nano-second; she went insane from all of it: the beatings, the betrayal and violation, the death that she wished would be granted more swiftly, the death that he gave poor Sarah…and reason she was now dead.

She bolted from the garage and screamed at the top of her lungs for him to come outside and face her: a challenge she knew he would undoubtedly accept as pure entertainment (the thought fueled her disgust and anger, self-hatred and guilt to the point of no return). It was then, that her inner-most warrior at last made an appearance; and the woman let this sensation have control completely.

She had felt no fear when she saw him come to the window the next time, his composed face looking warped with shock and disbelief at her sudden demands. She was screaming a plea for a duel with a man nearly two-and-a-half times her weight. She did not experience the typical fear when he began to pound angrily on the glass from inside the window, hollering things that she could not hear, but knew would be the most venomous death threats he’d ever made. She did not see much of anything besides a deepening blackness and the void of sharp edges; her thoughts huddled, unprocessed in a corner somewhere being protected by her own mind like a child’s.

Her battle cries continued until he finally came to the front door;  at approximately the same time a police cruiser pulled up two driveways down; she began to run towards the chain-link fence in that direction. She wasn’t running to freedom; she was running to tell the police that he was a murderer, to show them what he had done to Sarah – to make them understand why her heart could not go on any further in this living Hell. She was beyond any point of caring about her own safety or future by that time.

He bee-lined for her in the yard as she shuffled like a derelict in haste towards them, demanding that she first passed  his position on the front porch; her mouth sputtering, her lungs afire from yelling for so long and loud. Her long-disrepaired jaw had gradually become an un-healed injury that rendered her barely able to move it. She fell over her own frozen, numb feet, and, feeling certain she had finally met her end, looked directly towards the gathered crowd on the other side of the front yard’s fence; her huge, lumbering and loping husband closed in on her. She verbally managed to convey the message to the nearest police officer that she “was finally about to be killed…” before the final envelopment of her weakened, sinewy figure. A lot of blood and gore ensued. The police and paramedics on stand-by acted without hesitation upon his quickly executed attack, focusing every molecule of energy present in the environment on her simple continuity of LIFE.

 

PHYSICAL INJURIES SUSTAINED:

Severe vascular injury/ies (with particular attention to the internal carotid and jugular) from forcibly displaced mandible fracture and blunt lacerations;

Multiple Maxillofacial traumas requiring numerous surgeries necessary for her jaw to eventually function properly.

For months, she would remain too incoherent to be aware of any of the events that took place that day, or the fact that her husband had escaped the scene, despite so many people being physical there, right nearby, saving her life from his deathly grips at last. She would spend the next year with the burn unit patients in a hospital to physically work right again; and then they would start to try and reconstruct her face. It would be over a decade until any detail of that day (and the days leading up to it) would return to her mind with any true vividness; like any other memory she keeps; the entire element of Sarah having somehow been washed away with her painful, daily skin debriding in those early days – until only about six months ago, while she was writing a section for this blog.

And so, it had been finding Sarah’s battered and bloody body in HIS garage that turned me seemingly insane with guilt and self-loathing…I essentially begged him to come outside and kill me…and he did in some ways.

But, not in the ways that matter most.

 

PLEASE NOTE:

Ozfest and Vegas were unharmed during this incident.

Today.

Today I helped my somewhat coherent daughter take her first “shower” in ten days; it was the first time I have seen firsthand – the residual extent of her wounds from being kidnapped and tortured in Arizona…it was horrendous for me; but it was like heaven for her to feel clean.
I shampooed and conditioned her now shorn off hair; I found a deep and permanent divot left in the back of her skull from a hammer blow: a half-dollar sized strawberry colored sphere smack dead in the center of the back of her head. My throat tightened up so badly I began to wonder if I might start to hyperventilate.
All over her shoulders, arms, belly, chest and back are huge burn scars as long as the sword that was used to leave them; her arm has been pinned in three places, she’s been given a tracheotomy as a result of 1) Being forced to drink caustic chemicals; and 2) Having a belt cinched tightly round her neck for almost two days.
At one point, I looked down at the floor and asked what the mess what all about; don’t they have a janitor who comes and sweeps the floors? She said yes there is a janitor, and he never cuts corners on her room – she raised her feet both up in the air across from me and I saw the bottoms of her feet for the first time…I had not been made aware of what they had done to the bottoms of both her feet…my heart just hurt so bad. Her feet were burned the worst of all…they burned the bottoms of her feet into mush. What I was seeing on the floor was simply from her feet shedding skin layers endlessly. I just didn’t even know what to say to that…I didn’t say anything; just rubbed lotion on them for her.
She was laughing, smiling; still somehow trying to glow from underneath the mess on the surface…today was a very emotional day…but she’s coming around we hope.

Hum In The Air.

Traveling swiftly,
along in between,
the shuffling feet,
dropping and lifting,
to static frequencies,
over the threshold,
off of the streets,
into the bustling,
and humming,
of a million machines,
fostering,
the very needs,
of broken human beings…
over the sounds,
of the technology,
tubes and dressings,
Hallmark blessings,
I hear her breathing,
ever-steadily,
in the darkness,
over the chorus,
of the ticks, clacks,
hisses and beeps,
she breathes her way,
through the night,
thankfully,
to see another day,
that she’d preferably,
rather not even see,
which is sadly telling,
told by the many injuries,
outside and within,
the broken bones and skin,
all of the gods damned,
technologies and,
cures known to man,
won’t change anything,
the hand,
she’s been given,
the Hell,
that she must live in…
this was once my baby,
and she will,
always be,
worth so much more,
than what she perceives,
as reality,
no hope anymore,
of something in store,
hidden from the sight of me,
I hold my breath in,
unintentionally,
if I fail to register,
rhythmic machines,
over it all,
the patients in the halls,
the button to call…
the sound I faintly hear,
here and there,
along a stream-flow,
of the hospital air,
it’s dull and low,
but a sound I know,
all too well,
it’s the rewound,
haunting sound,
high-pitched,
helium,
voice to the face,
of my baby,
saying things like,
“Mommy please help me.”

Beckoning Support for the Bear Trainer.

She didn’t tell anyone, because she’s just like that…(she only shares her burdens when she feels like there is no other way), but the Bear Trainer is in major surgery today.

I shouldn’t be airing her laundry like this either – but I feel like EVERY last person who sends her positive energy will make a difference for her outcome. I won’t get too personal with this, other to say that her condition is very serious and life threatening at present; and I ask any of my readers to keep the Bear Trainer in every possible thought towards the upswing until I hear from her.

https://amalijaamalie.wordpress.com

Please keep her in your strongest of thoughts today. Thanks, everyone.

“Every rule has an exception. Especially this one.”

Anomalous”, an “exception”, a “phenomenon”; these are all things I have been called in the medical community throughout my recovery from a near-fatal attack over ten years ago.

The “anomaly” came into play during the initial sweep of MRSA that ran through the ICU and burn units, claiming the lives of two patients and yanking many others into the circling of the proverbial drain for months afterwards; I was, once again, somehow spared death at that time as well, despite the many open wounds that left me like a sitting duck for the infectious riptide. Immediately following exposure to the initial strain of MRSA, twelve out of nineteen of the patients there, in my particular unit, broke out with the Shingles (a strain of it that is STILL with at least two of them, to date). Again, I was “unscathed”. It’s important to keep in mind while reading this, that I was unconscious for the better part of 3 ½ weeks straight upon arriving and being rushed into emergency maxiofacial/vasculature surgery – it’s not as if I even had a clue as to what was happening afterwards, in the unit. I wasn’t putting up any conscious fight against anything…that entire period is dark for me, and I carry no recollection of it now. Either way, it was then that I received the medical file label of “immuno-anomalous”; a label that has stuck with me ever since that time – only to be elaborated upon by other surgeons, doctors and various medical professionals in the days to come.

Next was something wonderful: ‘Raynaud’s Phenomenon’.

This is a very strange condition in which cold temperatures or strong emotions cause microvascular spasms in the fingers, nose, and/or toes. Doctors rarely see this condition – it has a very, very rare (identified, at least) occurrence in the world; thus, is difficult to get properly diagnosed, much less treated. I nearly lost all ten of my toes on two separate occasions due to Raynaud’s;

  • Once, before getting it diagnosed accurately, when a doctor came through on his rounds and basically told me that my toes were so gangrenous that they would need to be amputated;
  • Again, before getting it properly diagnosed, another doctor came through on his rounds and said that they wouldn’t need to amputate, because my toes were shriveled into raisins anyway, and would soon “come off on their own” (that was on my birthday, by the way). Happy fucking birthday – you’re toeless!

Either way, I managed to keep my toes – all of them – to the absolute shock and surprise of all of us…I’M still not even sure how that happened without medical interaction – my toes DID literally look raisins for about a week. But – “phenomenally, they bounced themselves back to bloodflow…”, according to the treating physician at the time. And so, was born: “the Phenomenon”.

Lastly, but most sticky, has been “the Exception to Every Rule of Medicine”; a quote, verbatim, about me from a seminary speech made at Stanford Hospital during a retirement celebration thrown for my original reconstructive surgeon – one amazing individual – when he was asked if I was the reason behind his “early retirement”. So many other people from the Medical community were there to hear an esteemed and well-respected old-timer say such a thing, that I will likely NEVER live it down.

Thank You and Goodbye

 

 

ImageToday I lost a best friend; a longtime companion and side kick; an irreplaceable piece of my history and past: My eldest dog, Ozzy died this morning during surgery for a tumor removal. Thirteen and one half years old…my “other” shadow…is gone now…needless to say, this weighs heavily on my heart now.

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/03/01/things-ive-learned-from-my-dog-ozzy/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/02/26/my-other-kids/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/01/15/my-boo-and-my-roo/

If there is a Dog Valhalla, may the Gods show Oz this place – he has earned it most certainly, I’ll miss him always.

Qualcuno! dovrebbe sparare il batterista!

 Image

Not a pity party here tonight…just “blogging” in my “blog” like a good lil’ blogger…

I am surviving; yeah…I am waking up in the morning every day like a Survivor, however – with a permanently embedded bitterness pasted to the roof of my Survivor Mouth; rolling my eyes before even rolling out of my bed completely; aimless; hateful and resentful; wishing for a car to strike me dead in the road with every crossing I make. I can’t say that I’m suicidal; I don’t lie around thinking about ways in which to end my horrid, miserable mockery of a “life”, nor do I idealize the notion of offing myself – as inviting as that idea may be oftentimes when it passes fleetingly through my overstimulated mind at random. Yes, I said “at random”, and I did not misuse the word; thoughts of death or dying or being dead flow freely around my every moment of life, oddly enough. Even after surviving a very near-fatal injury and recovering for so many years afterward, even after spending so long of a time wondering if I could eventually be someone who appears “normal” again on the outside – and then finally achieving that “normalcy” in appearance; even after almost having the very life ripped out of my grasp forever before I was ready to die (I was only 21)…still, I remain infatuated with the alternative of life and living somehow.

I can say this: that I never would have fought to recover like I did – had I known what the future held. That thought bothers me often, and is something that I bring up regularly in therapy with my shrink because it weighs heavily on my heart to be aware of this fact. I talk long shit about my Cut-Throat instinct, and how it defines who I am; but sometimes I wonder if I don’t secretly despise the Survivor in me for pulling through to the other side, for fighting so hard for so long when it was so trying in every way, for believing so fucking much in Modern Medicine, “miracles” and The Underdog Theory…do I actually resent myself for getting through ….TO THE HELL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HELL. I think so. No matter what anyone else says about shit and the way shit went down, I continue to look at my recovery from severe and traumatic injury as the period in my life that I screwed Boo over the worst. This was when Boo was abandoned in her mind; it was during this time that Boo needed me more than ever – a time when I was within arm’s reach to her but denied her access, as far as she was concerned; I was selfish and wrong to have expected a toddler to comprehend my own instability – that’s not a kid’s job. Sometimes I wonder if Boo would have been better off had she been taken into the foster system way back then, when she was still young enough to be suggestible to ideas such as mental health and coping skills, etc. …I can’t help but to blame myself for what Boo has become, it’s natural I know that.

I also know it’s not always reasonable for me to blame myself for how things have gone with her; not all of them, at least. The guilt and the self-disgust over this period of my history eats me alive though, with every unfolding crease in the pages. Cause and effect is a basic concept; and one that has always been near and dear to my world in an instantly gratifying way; as I have always been keen on the irony of this particular notion. I have been struck by the leathery, aged hand of Karma into the state that you know today: my entire life being a comic strip tableau of karmic instances occurring consecutively in a long string of “Hate to say I told you so’s”. Anyway, more recently I am becoming aware that I am middle-aged, rebelliously single, mentally unstable, and vertically challenged woman (who looks like a little boy because her hair won’t grow into some of the many varying grafts in her scalp) with a total lack of motivation or purpose or direction. This will hopefully be a temporary self-inventory; God Damn I hope it is temporary because I’m getting tired of resenting myself for being alive so often.