Night Terrorist.

I don’t know,

what it means,

I don’t recall,

too much at all,

all that I know,

upon wakening,

both fists in a ball,

afraid of everything,

the walls feel like,

they breathe on me,

eyes are blurry,

skin is clammy,

a revival of buried things,

from a past most terrifying,

I can’t run or hide,

and I can’t scream,

he’s there searching,

out there lurking,

disfigured and bloody,

undead and muddy,

with a blade that keeps flashing,

at that moment,

another layer of torment,

I am sickened by the scene,

as I know deep down,

with certainty,

that eventually,

he will come find me,

slash his shiny blade,

right through my airway,

and there will be,

at least for me,

no way to escape,

this same old crime scene,

same old tragic psychopathy,

a crimson crown,

trickled down,

my face, but I feel no pain,

and I steadily drain,

terror from my severed veins,

my memories,

washing heavily,

down the gutter again.

 

 

 

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.

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.

Come.

Come see me –

this night;

in my dark cornered dreams

I beg of you to make me scream;

Come touch me –

Once more;

sweat your saliva from my pores

cut the wire and kick in the door;

Come stay with me –

come closer; revive;

wake me up until I come alive

let me feed the carnivorous side;

Come with me –

come in; confide;

touch every steaming hot place inside

never look into my crying eyes;

Come ruin me –

this night;

see my body writhe beneath

Come tonight and leave me empty.

Abuela.

Read about the Incident can be found here:

Based on the communal nightmare that took place in my mother’s street (literally two doors down from her home) the other day; and, after seeing firsthand the ways in which panic and confusion can easily take over an already chaotic scenario, I have decided to take the initiative of beginning a “neighborhood panic button” for my own neighborhood. I do not foresee any situation in which a gunman takes, and subsequently murders a hostage – but my parents wouldn’t have foreseen it, either. I feel obligated in a sense to do this for one main reason: empathy. As an outsider who was caught alongside the insiders during this horrible event’s unfolding (a total of 13 hours by the time we were cleared to leave the vicinity), I can say with certainty that things could have been handled very differently in regard to the surrounding neighbors – by the surrounding neighbors. This had NOTHING to do with police actions that were littering any square of sidewalk for blocks in any direction, either…they did an impressive perimeter lockdown and had every resource at work from the time they arrived until they finally left during the wee morning hours the next day.
The issue I kept feeling like I was backhanded by was undoubtedly the overall lack of concern, cooperation, and/or compassion put forth by the very people that live there. It has never been a very close-knit neighborhood, despite what everyone is saying in the news since the incident. Nobody, save Abuela (the woman who was killed), my mother (not my step-father because he is as inti-social as it comes), a Slavic man with a tiny dog named Tiger, and two archaic elderly couples on either corner, even speak to one another regularly. The few people who behave neighborly to one another have only come to do so with a long passing of time and necessity (an earthquake, a car accident outside, etc.). People had no idea that Abuela was even in trouble, much less – that kind of trouble; my mother did not even hear the shots that killed her from two houses away…I swear to the Gods at one point early on in the stand-off, I heard the Korean man who lives in between my mom and the crime scene in his backyard sorting through his recyclables – I would have assumed he was completely oblivious to what was going on, but am positive that he knew because we had all been put on lock-down and the police had been in and through the houses surrounding Abuela’s, including my mom’s. I just feel like maybe if her neighborhood gave a little more of fuck about one another on a humanitarian level, things might have ended differently…I don’t know. What I do know is that THIS is prime example of why neighbors should be neighborly to one another during times of NON-CHAOS.
Empathy is a near extinct and quite unpopular notion, I know…but when are all these uppity, self-absorbed, judgmentally challenged idiots everywhere going to grasp the concept that it is, and always has been EMPATHY that sets human beings (as a species) apart from the rest – – – we are doomed undeniably if we let it fade to chaos.

Set On Fire.

I found out about it this morning upon waking up to look at my phone (set on silent overnight, as per my usual routine); and I will say that my heart dropped down into my belly somewhere and hasn’t yet returned to its proper place.
I groggily read just a few snippets of the slew of text messages sent throughout the night by my Mom; catching things like:

“Your father (by this, she means my step-father) went to get Boo downtown and hasn’t come back…”,
Or:

“He’s STILL not home, I’m worried…”,
Or:

“It’s been THREE HOURS NOW! I have no car, and I’m going crazy…”
Or finally:

“His phone just goes straight to voicemail…”

It was just the day before yesterday that I sat out on the front porch with him to escape my mother’s  hollering into her Bluetooth inside (she still doesn’t grasp the notion of the other person being able to hear her fine if she just speaks in a normal tone); that I verbalized some very haunting visions to him in a foretelling plea for his logical side to come out and hear me…in total vain, it turns out.

Boo has been consistently dishonest and destructive to my parents ever since that dreaded moment in which my mother was struck by some gods-awful notion that she had to see Boo through the next few surgeries until the tracheotomy is removed and she can speak naturally again; she has brought with her presence in their home nothing but grief and disarray – dope fiend maneuvers, and all things associated with a fucking street hooker’s lifestyle, in essence. My parents are so naive…sickeningly naive…naive from age, apparently. Because, the clueless and vulnerable old folks that each has evolved to represent these days were NOT the two people who I had around during my teen-aged years, by a long shot.

  • Boo’s despicable thievery has, thus far, totaled up to at least: $3,500.00 (yes, you read that correctly) stolen out of my sleeping father’s wallet in the wee morning hours while she was awake and whacked out on drugs; but, there have been other instances as well of stolen cash in much smaller amounts, too.
  • She has stolen family heirloom jewelry (oddly enough, her father literally stole pieces of the exact same set almost 20 years ago) from my mother’s room while being left alone at their house during the workday.
  • She stole ALL of my mother’s medicines (a very notably sized plethora of pills including but not limited to Oxycontin, various tranquilizers, psyche meds, and the handful of different medicines that my mom NEEDS for rheumatoid arthritis and lupus.
  • She stole my father’s entire wallet; as well as a stun gun that was deep inside of one of her bureau drawers.

In a nutshell, she has been horribly ungrateful and disrespectful, she has remained in constant violation of the home that they have, once again, opened up to her in her time of need. Last night should have undoubtedly been “the straw” for both of them…

My father drove downtown last night to pick Boo up at the drop of a dime when she called, claiming she had been punched in the face and her phone had been stolen (I live in the silicon valley, a live and wide awake place where downtown isn’t welcoming at nighttime to the average person); 

when he arrived to the place she had directed to meet her at, he was beaten nearly to death by five grown men who appeared from nowhere – only seconds before Boo suddenly appeared, as well. One of the cowards even went into his car and found his ginormous Maglite flashlight, then proceeded to beat him in his face with it until my dad went unconscious in the street. I was not there…I do not know for myself any of the minor details surrounding this heinousness; but I do know that it changes everything – forever…for ME at least.

Woodshop.

me n woodshop 2012

Me and Woodshop Thanksgiving Day, 2012

I want to share a story with anyone who cares to read it; it is one of the most vivid and lasting memories that I carry from my former life as a “battered woman”; and it’s point in case has NEVER left me; not since I was able to escape with my life and get away to eventually reflect on everything that happened back then. It is a story that drives home the emphasis placed on the psychological aspects of being a domestic hostage to an abusive mate; and for me, it sends chills down my spine to touch upon in memory for that very reason…it basically epitomizes the way that someone can become TOO FUCKING HOPELESS AND AFRAID TO SURVIVE OUTSIDE OF THE ABUSE.
Before I met my ex-husband, I had another boyfriend, whom I loved fiercely and fostered deep a spiritual connection with from the gate; they call him ‘Woodshop’. He and I spent almost a year living together prior to my meeting the Ripper. I was actually still sharing a house with Woodshop when I first was introduced to my ex-husband. Things happened, as they always do – and Woodshop was removed abruptly from my life by being arrested and sentenced to 28 months in jail for (unrelated to me) criminal activities. And just like that – he was GONE. During his time in jail, I got married to, and had my daughter with the Ripper. Due to the circumstances surrounding the unhealthy jealousy and dominance that I quickly learned about the man I had settled down with, I eventually stopped writing to Woodshop altogether and we lost touch. Time passed in its cruel way.
I remember it was Christmas Eve day when I opened my front door with double raccoon eyes and a smeared nose to see Woodshop on my porch, mouth hanging open as wide as possible – speechless, and he was obviously disappointed by how he found me. I was home alone and I remember saying,

“What are you doing here? You’re gonna get me killed!”

After all that time and the heavy bonds between us, that was ALL I HAD TO SAY TO HIM and the hurt stung in his face. He got me to sit down on the stoop with him and talk a while; I somewhat caught him up on the Living Hell I was existing within; and he said,

“Go inside and pack some things, get ready to leave…I’ll take care of the rest…I’ll take care of him when he finds out…don’t worry; just get some clothes and let’s go.”

I recall thinking about his words and blurting out,

“What about my baby? He has my daughter, I can’t leave without her!”

Boo was a new element to Woodshop; one that he had not considered into the equation yet; and he thought for a while before saying something like,

“We will come back for her, I swear…I’ll come back for her tonight after we get you to my mom’s house, somewhere safe…”

It was an absurd suggestion in my mind, and I discounted the notion immediately. Woodshop wouldn’t leave though; he refused to leave without me…and, as the time passed, I became more uneasy about his being there when my husband got home. Eventually, that was exactly what happened…my psychopathic and abusive husband came home and found us sitting together (me with a broken face, mind you) on the front porch. I knew it was bad; and it was only going to escalate quickly. In short, they ended up exchanging venomous words and the pissing contest began. After I got hold of Boo (who was under about 6 months old), I went inside the house for some reason. I wasn’t packing clothes like I should have been doing, I wasn’t sneaking around out the back door to Woodshop’s car to escape with him while I had the chance…I was just stuck stupidly in the front window – watching the fight of a lifetime. It was absolutely dreadful, in spite of the valiant intention attached to the trigger that shot everything to Hell in the blink of an eye – I recall thinking to myself how either way it ended – I was in for some dark times ahead; because if Woodshop lost then he’d likely be badly wounded or even killed by my ex-husband – and if Woodshop didn’t lose, my ex-husband would be on the war-path for his revenge – I knew.
They must’ve gone twelve long and drawn-out rounds out there; an all-out, drop-kick, spit-out teeth, and slung blood; I watched in anxious, petrifying fear from the window – the most terrifying and slow-motioned fist stand-off between my horribly violent and physically monstrous ex-husband and THE ONLY PERSON WHO EVER TRIED TO SAVE ME FROM HIM. Woodshop inarguably “won” the fight, too; though it is not in his nature to gloat. He left my ex-husband on his back, semi-conscious, gurgling up pieces of lung and choking on mouthfuls of his own blood; he stumbled back up the stoop and through the threshold to find me standing there in sheer shocked stupidity – unable to move my feet or fully comprehend what had just happened.

“Let’s go…NOW!”

He was bleeding and sweating, adrenaline spun-up to the skies, his eyes constantly darting in to the direction of my ex-husband’s figure, rolling around and muttering incomprehensibly by the gate to the street and sidewalk. I didn’t budge, I didn’t look at his face when he came right up in mine and stood very still and said:

“We need to get going now, right now. Get the stuff the baby needs and let me get you away from here, please…”

I remember feeling so terrified of the aftermath in that moment; I remember thinking again of the “lose-lose” situation I was facing: if I left with Woodshop, I would on the run and so then, would he become too…and if I stayed…well, we all know what I had to look forward to if I stayed. I didn’t leave with Woodshop that day – the day that he moved mountains to guide me (and my baby daughter) out of a very dangerous and unsafe situation. I spent that evening nursing my ex-husband’s wounds and preparing myself for the wrath I would receive for the fight and Woodshop’s actions in trying to protect me from him.
To end this story on a lighter note, Woodshop and I are still very close somehow, and this story comes up as a result of our spending the day together yesterday. After everything was said and done, he didn’t seem to think twice in finding some understanding and forgiveness for me when I was recovering in the hospital; he doesn’t like to talk about that day, even now – all this time later; he doesn’t like to talk about anything that is associated with my ex-husband (outside of Boo, of course – he has always had a soft spot for Boo) – and he never lets me give him the credit and acknowledgement I feel he should have for that act of heroism; for that one, single day out of my history when he stuck up for me against “the untouchable” (in my former self’s mind, at least) – and won. In that moment however, I was so deeply impaired by domestic violence and terrorism in my marriage that I denied him the “prize” he was fighting for to begin with; and as a result of the fight, he opened a can of worms for himself with my ex that lasted until the Ripper went on the run, after trying to kill me. Anyway, I have NEVER forgotten or discounted that incident on that day; nor the heart that shone through like a beacon when it came time for Woodshop to either look the other way (like EVERYONE else did), or bust a grape on the principles and standards that he’d always claimed to harbor – the love that he carried for me from before he and I parted ways and I got married – the moment of pure radiant shine that he gave to me, handed to me in my own living Hell of perpetual darkness. This one’s for you, Woodshop – one of my truest and most kindred friends on this Earth.

You are a hero.

Incremental Death.

“It is said that a frog will jump out of a pot of boiling water; however, if one places it in a pot and turns the water up a little at a time, the frog will stay until it is boiled to death…We frogs understand this.”      ~ Deb Caletti

WebThis quote is a painfully true statement in my personal case; and, has always stuck with me since I first read the words on a fellow speaker’s pamphlet at a DV seminar that I was speaking at. She had such a powerful message that we became instant allies in the fight against Domestic Violence and Child Abuse. The “boiling point” comparison has always hit right at home with me because I used to be burned with scalding water regularly during my captivity/marriage; and the metaphor is dead on because the effect of this one of two things:

  1. it shocks you in totality
  2. it creates physical numbness

My dear sister survivor Avalanche once wrote about the “boiling point” also – nailing it to perfectly described element of the truths surrounding domestic violence and captivity. We frogs do, indeed, understand this all too well.

“The Other”.

I guess in all fairness, she lived here long before I did; this was her vessel for even longer than it has belonged to me (I pirated this shell a little over a decade ago now), she functioned within this skin for over two decades prior to my arrival. She primed the solid physique that I carry today, fed the body meals, and somehow managed to get it to where I came into the picture alive…well, barely alive – but alive all the same.

She was a weakling; a cowed and youthfully blind creature, a dreamer, a believer in good, a hopeful and ever-willing dumbass, a self-detrimental junkie and a self-absorbed human being…she was “the other”.

women killed…and she nearly got me killed that decade or so ago…because of the miserable and unbelievable situation she had found herself in in place far from home, friends or family. She went on ahead and had a baby with the man (her husband) who was beating her to a pulp regularly; a man whom she had come to be learn first hand: suffered from increasingly unpredictable physically/sexually violent tendencies towards her. This is an element of domestic abuse that becomes quite the double edged dagger later down the road; but in the beginning of such a notion, the draw is undoubtedly that of human closeness, tenderness and fondness for the DV victim…”the other” was eventually alienated beyond words. The baby linked “the other” to the real world just enough to keep her on head on somewhat forward-facing; the baby also created an entirely new element of fear within her day to day life. She began to care less and less about herself as a result, her safety became irrelevant in her own mind.1072960“The other” got her throat opened in her front yard one day at the hands of that same man; yes, the one who she had married and had children with – the one who she knew she had to get away from before such a thing took place…the one who’s sickness continues to rot away at my existence through the offspring we share. I don’t relate to her choices, that young girl who was slashed that day; I never have…

Since the moment that I picked up her nearly dead carcass and breathed my own air into its essence, she has remained an enigma of sorts to me with her pathways taken and where they led her. I pity her. I dislike her. I cry sometimes for her when I’m alone.

crying_woman_liquid_tears_crying_weeping_wallpaper-t2

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.

A Rager.

It was near-dinnertime…
summertime –
it was July, I’m pretty sure…
I was in gridlock traffic…
glued onto Old Julian and 23rd…
it was then that it started raining…
not water –
but the worst of profane words…
a glance in the general direction…
of the commotion that I heard…
on this day found me staring…
down the angry
rainmaker’s chambered rounds…
but it wasn’t just simply the one …
many toted guns –
pulled from various waistlines…
they’d all lost their damned minds…
c’mon now, it’s rush hour –
let’s steer away…
from the road rage…
somehow –
by then, I’d counted all of eight…
angry pistols being waved…
by many angry knaves…
time to go my separate way…
side streets –
red the green repeatedly…
leather seats in triple digit heat…
green trees –
to smoke alone…
in peace when I get home…
and fuck me to tears…
if the news anchor wasn’t…
immediately on the TV…
Traffic Incident Murders!!! –
multiple shooters on the lam…
I knew it, and I almost said…
I just shut the fuck up instead…
bow my head, I am – God damn.

Give In.

The time had come,
and I’d finally been,
separated from,
my own inner-victim –
she subconsciously perceived,
no worth at all for the rest of me,
too blind to be willing to believe,
quick to give into a shitty destiny –
but; such weakness,
does not belong to everyone,
it’s not for each of us,
to fall when the music’s gone –
I wished at first to find her,
in the comforts of familiarity,
reality stung like an open nerve,
and I ditched the bitch, permanently –
the last day that I was his victim,
a survivor stepped onto the scene,
who’d rather be dead than be with him,
who’ll never forget where she’s been.

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.

Black Days.

If you knew how it feels when you cut in,

with a blade to the core of my heart, within;

if you felt what I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this loveable person

under this bloody and broken skin…

I don’t think you’d be able to hurt me again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise me that I can believe what you say;

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

when you refuse to let me get away

            from the constant hurt and pain…

How can you even spit the words “I love you”, at me, anyway?

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

you battered it into something no longer reminiscent of mine;

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

once you saw the ways by which my spirit is defined

            only a matter of mattered time…

before the Universe levels out, and the planets re-aligned.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled’

at the hands of your very own, singularly beloved;

if your heart stabbed so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent every moment of your nights underneath dread

and your days cleaning up the wounds on your head…

I’m sure you would have already killed me, instead.

When your marks cover all of my visible parts,

yet, you can’t fight your despicable urges to tear me apart;

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

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

            and you capitalize on my body, down to a medieval dungeon art…

it’s no wonder then, that my blood runs so burgundy from your heart.

This is a poem that recently found scribbled by hand into an old notebook I used to keep during my marriage/captivity. This is something that I wrote right around the very first time that I tried to leave my The Ripper, when I was eighteen years old and six months pregnant with Boo.

The important thing I would like anyone who reads this to keep in mind is…

I WENT BACK.

The Third Person.

The water hurt her skin so badly that her mind had frozen, in stark contrast to the extreme temperature raining down on her in rivulets of pain. The steam from the scalding shower had long-before that moment saturated the entire bathroom – from ceiling to floor, wall to wall. The pain was nearly unbearable; using only her eyeballs best she could, she searched her bare stomach and arms for the holes that she was certain must be burning through her skin by now from the water. The desire to scream in pain was stronger now, but she dared not make a sound and incite her husband further. When he would remove his eyes from her form in the burning shower, she would quickly step out of its drops to one side or the other and back to the center of the stream before he noticed; that was surely the only way she could withstand the burning for so long of a time as he always liked to hold her there in the searing torture. Of course, he never felt the pain, only watched from the sink with a smile.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

She had sincerely wondered aloud to him once during “shower time”.

“Jack loves you…he doesn’t want to hurt you…I’m sorry…”

Her husband’s face puckered in an apologetic flinch that she almost missed because it happened so fast. He continued on in a much more sinister sounding tone and the smile returned to his sweaty face once more.

“‘Americano’ wants to cut you up into pieces and put you in a trash bag…”

That had been the very first time that she had inarguably seen some sort of shift in her husband’s entire demeanor from one thing to the complete opposite end of the scale within seconds. After that day, she began to consciously watch him for such instances, and was deeply disturbed to learn that there was, indeed, a pattern.

‘The Third Person Pattern’ was what she had labeled it in her own mind: circumstances in which her husband literally referred to himself in the third person context of storytelling or writing. He would actually use his real name (which wasn’t really Jack) and in a separate context, also his nickname (which wasn’t really Americano, but the point is made the same) when he verbalized things from his own perspective – as if they were two different men and he was a third who talked about them.

Her husband had, some years previous to meeting her, run down one of his own blood-brothers, leaving him to spend the rest of his days as a quadriplegic in severe chronic pain…a horrible, horrible thing. When she learned of this truth from one of his other brothers, months after their wedding, she was unable to bite her tongue about like she should have; that was just her nature.

“Did you really do that to So-and-So, Jack?”

She did not doubt that he had done it; it reeked of his impulsive and explosive temper, after all she had come to know of this monster she’d married, the father of a daughter she was now pregnant with.

He hadn’t even flinched before answering without the slightest hint of remorse or apology.

“Yes. I did that to him…why?…do you see a problem with that, now that you know about what happened to him?”

“Um…yes, I see a huge problem with that…you tried to kill your own flesh and blood over some street gang bullshit…that is one of the most awful things I’ve ever heard of in my life!”

Backhand.

The slap was immediately followed by his other palm shooting up into her lower jaw from below with incredible force; his brute strength digging it into her windpipe, cutting off the air like a switch had been turned off.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, so you’d be smart to shut the fuck up before Americano does the same to you, you mouthy bitch.”

Days passed by without much said between them other than arguing and name calling, and then, as if nothing happened, he came into their bedroom one afternoon and said,

“Hey Babe – let’s go to the Reservation and win some money!”

Off they had driven two hours to a casino on a tribal reservation to the east of the desert where they lived. The time was uneventful, and she even played slot machines in peace as she waited for him to get tired of being there and decide to home. On the long drive home, he said to her with the utmost sincerity in his eyes and voice:

“You know….Americano drove over So-and-So (his younger brother who he maimed permanently and totally) because Jack loves him…you get that don’t you?”

Her pregnant stomached tied itself in a knot right then and there – a deeply embedded protective Mother Bear knot that didn’t untie until after her daughter’s birth, under extreme duress.

Dirt Naps in the Desert – Part 2

vow of total silenceShe slept, dreamless, for an unknown time in front of the window on the plaid, overstuffed Ethan Allen couch that always felt like it could swallow whoever sat down; the approaching headlights even failed to wake her when the yellow-white canisters of light finally danced across the pane of glass that she existed on the inside of. What finally woke her was the violent shaking and lack of air in her lungs; her ‘bad ear’ had betrayed once again. Despite her every effort not to do so, her eyes shot open reflexively in response to the growing sensation off suffocation.
She was lying on her back, looking up at the monster above her, his hands wrapped tightly around her disrepaired neck – thumbs overlapping one another at her trachea, pushing down so hard that the edges of her vision immediately began to fade.
‘Just let him kill you, already……..’
One thing she had quickly learned as the victim of a highly sadistic domestic captor is that the cycle is fueled by fear – her fear. When she appeared unafraid, he would lose interest in assaulting her and belittling her much faster than he did when she allowed him to see how terrified she was of him and his sickness. When she fought back and refused to lie down or pass out unconscious, it had the same effect. If she tried to roll into a ball and just ‘take it’, he became so enraged and antagonized by it, that he once kicked her in the face and head until she was literally knocked out cold. Her rebellious nature and history was likely the only thing that had kept her alive so far; abusive men such as her husband grow quickly tired and bored with women who don’t ‘fight back’.
“Who the fuck is driving back and forth out front, trying to get your attention?”
His grip loosened slightly as he spit the confusing question down at her, as if he expected her to actually answer such an absurd query. Her thoughts raced; she had no clue who was driving around outside, if there was even anyone out there at all – who knew?
“You better go out there and tell ‘em to get lost or your ol’ man’s liable to commence an ass whooping’, bitch…”
She always wondered where he had learned those two specific ‘big boy’ words: liable and commence; it’s not as if he ever set foot into a classroom of any kind during his time alive. With that, he shoved her head backwards into the frame of ‘her window’ with so much force that the wood split right in half.
“Go! Go tell them to scram and to stay the fuck away from you and your husband’s house or I’ll kill all of you…Go!”
She scrambled to her feet without question, the confused numbness being the only familiar sensation her; choking on the fresh intake of air allowed her, she instinctively felt the back of her head for the dampness of blood and then began rubbing her throat to get the feeling back where he had his grip only seconds before. The reality was: that if there was actually somebody driving around outside, it was most likely going to be one of HIS friends – ready to run her down with a vehicle or something along those lines. Yet, somehow the idea of that seemed much more inviting than the situation inside with Mr. Americano.
She bolted out the front door without thinking much about it; the pre-dawn air outside was crisp and cool, a breeze gently swaying the trees and shrubs in the yard with a quiet whisper of air. There was nobody out there; no cars or trucks or horse drawn carriages for that matter. She dazedly swept her line of vision back and forth several times before turning to walk back into her own Living Hell once more.
Maybe he will be calmed down now…
The front door was locked when she tried to turn the knob and enter; the thought of him locking her out did not register at first, and she tried repeatedly to turn it before realizing his game. Despite knowing that he would have already covered the back door and the windows already, she made her rounds about the house – trying in vain to get back inside. It was too cold to be outside in one thin layer of clothing, but he knew that. A few hours passed before she groggily recognized the fact that the back of her head had been oozing blood since she came outside, and in the few moments before sunrise, and out of sheer necessity, she tended to the wound with the garden hose and some old napkins from the detached garage (HIS garage).

Once in a while, she would see him wander a window and look for her, always seemingly satisfied with what he saw before returning to whatever it was he was doing inside the warm house alone. She tried not to think about that though; his betrayal and mockery broke her spirit more than any physical harm he could do.
I will NOT beg to get back inside this time…

Dirt Naps in the Desert – PART 1

This wasn’t a new feeling, this heart stuck in the middle of her esophagus feeling; she had grown disturbingly familiar with the pseudo-lump in her throat by now…just a little over a year’s time. Her thoughts drifted hazily back through time, trying to confirm the accuracy of her perception of time passed since she first became this way – since she lost herself in the midst of an existence under the control of a very angry, pathologically violent, faultily hardwired and precariously unstable man…her husband.
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It had, indeed, been over a year, she silently decided with a slow shake of her heavy, down turned head; she was shocked to realize that she had let it get so far out of her own ability to act – to protect herself – to survive. The very notion of survival had taken on a new face in her mind these days. The recurring raccoon eyes, especially in combination with the non-healing broken jaw and collar bones that she still painfully lived with began to seem like a cake walk, in comparison to the things her husband often did when he was on a psychopathic bender.
Mr. Americano’s unacknowledged, intrinsic rage and deeply seeded hatred towards ALL women on Earth manifested differently, depending on the type of bender he was riding out; but the manifestations most certainly always involved degrading her, physically and sexually assaulting her – no matter the way things played out. Lately, he was obviously escalating quickly to a level which he’d never gone before; the terror and tension she now endured from one moment to the next, waiting like a nervous burglar near the front picture window in the darkness – searching the yard for any sign of movement, fearfully anticipating the headlights rolling over the pane of glass behind which she sat like a scared animal, stiff with fear.
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He had been highly upset over Christmas; his anger had oddly been deflected off of her that time however, and he had gone on a rampage all over town to supposedly “collect” what people owed him.
“It’s bullshit that I don’t have no money for Christmas gifts for my girls while they [by “they”, he meant several of his longtime friends who were each struggling much more than we were, financially] have cash to celebrate and shit…”
He had grown increasingly irritable over the few hours prior to finally leaving that night, the night before Christmas Eve, to go “take what was his” from people who he had known since his childhood that supposedly owed him money (she never knew that part of it for sure, though). He left with a handgun in his door panel, and he was out of his mind with this fit of enraged anger over money owed to him; the entire blow-up seemed random as Hell to her, but nothing really made sense anymore.
He had returned early the next morning covered in blood, beaten half to death and looking quite defeated. He looked like a zombie walking up the path to the front door, literally – clothes torn to shreds in some places, one shoe falling apart with every shuffling step he took towards her, the other shoe missing altogether. His face had been smashed worse than he had ever smashed hers; his eyes were both nearly swollen closed (she wondered how he was able to drive home in that condition, but said nothing of it).
Her heart had fluttered at the sight of him that way: broken, bloody and betrayed by his own cockiness and temper; such a short-lived glory plummeted just as quickly as it caught air however, upon the chilling reminder that she would ALWAYS pay the price for the mistakes others made when it came to her husband; she had always bore the burdens of the stupid things people would say or do to piss him off and make him passively violent the instant that they were behind closed doors.
It was with that thought that she snapped back to the present moment: heart still planted firmly in her mid-esophagus, fear still flash freezing her every particle while she waited for Mr. Americano to return tonight. She had no idea where he’d been or who he’d been talking with – there was no telling which off-the-wall fancy he was going to bring home with him this time. One way or another, she would get the wrath for whatever had him so balls-out angry again, she was sure of that much. At some point in between an onslaught of the panicked breaths her body was reflexively forcing her to take and the all-consuming terror and anxiety attached to the anticipation of his homecoming, she actually fell soundly asleep from emotional exhaustion.

When she made the mistake of resting her head with her “good ear” (the one that he hadn’t beaten the ability to hear from) against the mattress or sofa cushions, creating the encompassing silence appreciated only by those with true hearing LOSS, it was inevitable that she would drift off to sleep every time. She loved quiet time; she loved it more with each second of her life that flew away in the wind; it was the only time she was able to think at all, the rest of her time felt like it was spent on a different planet with an alien companion that made bi-polar disorder look like a week-long bachelor party in the Glades.
More often than not, she found herself stunned to uselessness, unable to comprehend what was happening at any given time, as it was 9 times out of 10: an exceptionally unforeseen act of violence (often torture) against her, at the hands of her monstrous husband. It was during these times of sheer Living Hell that she became numb to the physical damages being done to her body somehow. During the most painful of instances, she would will herself to stand up again – over and over and over until her feet and legs refuse to follow her brains command to lift her up once more. The rest of the time though, she unfailingly did nothing but to sit in a daze and focus on the unspeakable levels of cruelty and sadism that the man who fathered her only child enjoyed to watch her squirm beneath.
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She had been through all of the stages akin to this type of a female domestic hostage: denial, enabling, disbelief, self-loathing and guilt, the defensive, the law, and lastly – resignation. It wasn’t long ago that she had realized she would die this way, in this house with her years’ worth of blood stains soaking into each bedroom’s every plank of wood; she understood that this had been her fault, the decision to marry an illiterate, psychopathic giant with ZERO self-control. That was her bad choice and she owned that much of things; it was about all she owned, and she held on to it fiercely.
The night he had come home beaten and defeated, three of his “friends” in three different locations had surprised him with self-defensive responses to his bullying tactics; one had overtaken him with a club from a dark corner in a garage, one had put up the fist fight of his life and eventually got the upper hand when his two brothers showed up and joined in on his side to knock Mr. Americano unconscious. He finally proceeded to go to “Rooster’s” house (this had been the genius who introduced her to her captor/husband a few years back) and pull the gun he had stashed in his truck door as he had left the house on him in the front yard of his house.
Rooster told her at a later time that Mr. Americano had, indeed, chambered a round and aimed the gun at his face before attempting to shoot him dead then and there. The gun jammed and Rooster was close enough to grab for it. After a short scuffle, Mr. Americano found himself at a disadvantage – already worse for wear and without his gun. Luckily for him, his longtime friend has better morals and standards than he ever could have cultivated or maintained, and let him get away without further incident. It was because of this insane incident that Rooster wound up coming to the house just a few days after Christmas to speak with her while he was at his father’s with the girls to exchange gifts etc. True to his imposing notoriety, he just walked right through the front door and came in to where she was folding laundry on the sun porch out back, first startling her and then, scaring her beyond words with his story about the night before Christmas Eve and the terrifying implications behind its events.
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“Look…I know things are bad for you now, but if you stick around here much longer, things are going to only get a lot worse – really fast; if you don’t beeline for it soon, you’re gonna take a dirt nap somewhere in the desert, girl…”
Dirt naps in the desert were sadly a common way for a bad person to get rid of somebody for good; she knew that. Her husband had commented about this several times in the past in reference to other people who had crossed him. She often wondered if he had already buried anyone in the Mojave out there. Miserably, it would not have surprised her to learn that he had.

All she could do was shake her head and stare at the floor as Rooster summarized a dread warning of life or death to her. The thoughts flooded in once more: the pathetically redundant cycle of possible escape plans, the law, and any trustworthy individuals who would not give her up if she ever actually got out to safety and away from him; it was a hideous, dead-end display of her paralyzed state of mentality. After several minutes, and without lifting her gaze to make eye contact in any way, she simply said:
“You better go, Rooster. If he comes home and finds you here while he’s gone, my head will roll, you know?”
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Her husband had continued to behave more and more erratically and unpredictably over the few months between then and the present; disappearing for hours without word and then returning livid and explosively violent towards her. She staged a “visit” for their daughter up north with her parents, a desperate attempt to assure the baby’s own emotional and physical safety. He had never laid a hand on the girls, but that was liable to change at any moment now. One night, while she sat terrified in the front window, waiting for him to return and beat her until he grew bored and tired with the effort it took, she decided to go through with an escape. She had finally realized and accepted the fact that if she did not act, she would die…and likely soon.

The Red – Chevelle

“This change, he won’t contain,
Slip away, to clear your mind.”

“So lay down – the threat is real;

when his sight goes red again…”

Anni

It never goes very long without a reminder; a bottle to the forehead…a wake-up refresher course in “Domestic Captivity”; there are too many of us out there for it to ever stop being revisited, even by Survivors like me, who hasn’t felt a physical blow for a decade now. Today, I want to introduce my readers to someone “new” to my crew…although to call her “new” at this would be a lie – she is a front line soldier of 13 years in the War on Domestic Violence and Captivity. My new friend is, unfortunately, a veteran at receiving cruelty at the hands of the man she once trusted loved and married – in a blinded state of being. Anni, who has some strikingly similar history to mine, however, the thing is – Anni’s isn’t history as of yet…she still resides in Domestic Captivity from one day to the next – walking on egg shells from one step to the next – surviving on the most basic of things: HOPE.
When I see her appear in my comment s section, I am always washed over by relief that she has returned again, alive and engaged, to seek what little support for her grueling circumstances that she can get – no matter how minimal it may be from the blogosphere. I am always shaken to tear after reading her frank and totally honest posts about her life with her own Monster, just like The Ripper…eerily like The Ripper. These are the details surrounding Anni that terrify me for her ongoing survival – she remains in the grips of a man who I imagine as having The Ripper’s face – based on his characteristic traits and behaviors toward her. The patterns she describes are so identical to his leading up to the day he cut my throat, that it’s truly difficult for me to NOT take action of my own in this particular situation, as I genuinely fear he will eventually kill her, or at least try his damndest to. Anni and I are kindred souls, also…having been cosmically connected from day one, in addition to our similarities in experience; we are born of the same stock of Survivor, obviously. I don’t know her in real life…I have never seen her face or nursed her wounds…I have never stood in between her and her monster to protect her from being hurt anymore…but I would gladly do any of the above, if given the opportunity. I mean that.
I suppose the point behind my writing this post is because it is important for EVERYONE to know how REAL and ALIVE the Monsters are to those of us who are held captive by their grip over our very livelihood…from day to day. I feel that as a human being, a survivor of a sadistic and inhumane Terrorist Husband, but most importantly: as someone who gives a fuck about her outcome, it’s important for ALL OF US to help her keep her HOPE alive until she is safely away and doesn’t need it anymore. It could mean all the difference between whether she continues to get back up or stays on the floor, and that’s truth. Someone like Anni needs all of the support she can get right now…Just like Tee did before she finally got out and away to lasting safety. Tee says that she never could have made it a reality without her crew here as a means of support, and I believe her. Things may have gone much more smoothly for me had blogs been a thing back when I was in captivity…I think about this often.

TO MY AMAZINGLY SUPPORTIVE READERS:
MEET ANNI, go say hello to her and offer her whatever you have to offer her as a means of getting her through, if you’d be so kind…what goes around comes around…and she deserves to find some real support.

http://anni6290.wordpress.com/

The Trigger.

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 worse.

Sarah

Sarah

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 meal, 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 to share ONLY with these furry, ever-loving creatures.

It had been then 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 (the gamble of the outcome of a circumstance in which she lost consciousness was not one that typically landed the odds in her favor).

Yelling and clicking and cusswords.

Growling and snapping and cracking.

It wasn’t until a much later time (years later) that the woman would recall the image of her husband booting Sarah as well for trying to protect her. Sarah was a beautiful creature who died for her protective loyalty to the woman.

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 Sarah…and the reason why. She bolted from the garage and screamed at the top of her innermost warrior’s lungs for him to come outside and face her: a challenge she knew he would undoubtedly accept as pure entertainment (a thought that fueled her disgust and anger, self-hatred and guilt to the point of no return).

She had felt no fear when she saw him come to the window the next time; his composed face looking warped by shock and disbelief at her sudden demand for a duel with a man nearly three times her weight. She did not experience the “usual” fear when he started to pound on the glass from the inside and holler things she could not hear, but still knew would be the most venomous death threats he’d ever made to her. She did not see much of anything besides blackness and void of light; her thoughts unprocessed in a corner somewhere being protected by her own mind like a child’s. Her battle crying continued until he did finally come to the front door; the same time a police cruiser pulled up two driveways down and she began to run towards the chain-link fence in that direction.

She wasn’t running to her own 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 she’d lost her mind this way. She was beyond any point of caring about her own safety or freedom by that time. He bee-lined for her in the yard as she shuffled her battered frame in haste towards his position in the front door, her mouth sputtering blood, her lungs afire from yelling for so long and loud. Her busted and long-disrepaired jaw barely opened as it was, and she was beaten badly again the day before – hence, the lack of any notice of Sarah’s absence to begin with. She fell over her own numbed feet, and, feeling certain she had met her end, looked directly towards the gathered crowd on the other side of her front yard’s chain-link fence as her huge, 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, too…” before his final envelopment of her weakened, sinewy figure against the Thule Fog backdrop. 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 work properly again.

For months, the woman 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.

Ozzy and Sarah    Circa 2000

Ozzy and Sarah
Circa 2000

NOTE: Thankfully, Oz and Vegas were unharmed during this incident.

Come.

Come see me –

This night;

in my darkened corner dreams

I beg of you to make me scream;

Come touch me –

Once more;

Sweat your saliva from my pores

Cut the wires and kick in the doors;

Come stay with me –

Come closer; revive;

Eat me up until I come alive

Let me feed your carnivorous side;

Come with me –

Come in; confide;

Touch every steaming hot place inside

Never look into my crying eyes;

Come ruin me –

This night;

Take away your warmth from me

Come tonight and leave me empty.

Riddles and Lies

Image

Blood: yours and mine

drowned-out war cries

dance through the air; above, around.

An intangible fabric of pain; tangling

binding my spirit to it’s sound.

Aware: acutely and perfectedly

senses burned back to life;

unexpectedly.

A brightness whiter than a wormhole’s eyes;

swallowing my body, licking up the slavery from my mind.

Envelopment: wrapped tightly;

in the chaotic static, nothing’s automatic;

handed to you, nice and politely.

Movement: an evolution beyond my own DNA

bet you’d choke on your tongue if you saw me this way;

maybe you will after all, someday…

make a choking sound that will resonate;

across the soil of the places you’ve spilled your hate.

I can keep going past the side-show now;

I’ll swim on by,

I’ll fly right on by;

no nets attached to my broken, battered wings;

old rusted hooks

removed from my nooks;

scars are so beautiful, compared to those things.

 

 

The Cut-Throat Club

It was after a seven month “reconstruction” in the hospital; 10 for tissue repair and 17 combined reconstructive facial, jaw and neck surgeries, countless skin grafts and the hideous experience of burn bag treatments – that towards the end of the grueling, painful and quite humbling experience of becoming a surviving “cut-throat”, that I began to suffer from paranoia and severe anxiety.

During all those blurry and fog-filled months after my ex-husband cut my throat, I was soothed by the drug-enveloped safeties of the good ol’ I.V. drip morphine machine, as well as a constant stream of nurses inquiring about my level of comfort; they all pitied me I’m sure- from the beginning, they would tear up at my side, as I looked in a mirror; or they would rub my hair during the bag treatments in the burn unit; one of them even started calling me her surrogate daughter after the first few weeks I was there. They were good to me during a time when nothing in the universe made sense; and I was essentially on a different planet during that time due to my psychological state in addition to the constant pain drugs my physical recovery required.

It wasn’t until my physical recovery from the traumas relating to my marriage were nearly “complete”,  that I was able to begin to deal with the psychological effects of the life – and near death –  I had survived, was continuing – to survive through.

The paranoia was the first experience that I had ever personally had with severe PTSD; and its first appearances, in combination with the waning effects of a year of non-stop  narcotics – eventually began to play tricks on my fearful mind – in a subtle way at first. I would hear voices on the back stairs of my apartment (that weren’t real) and have other full-blown audible hallucinations during my first 6 months home from the hospital.

Before long, I was certain that my ex-husband (who had evaded capture and was on the run from police for cutting my throat) and his posse were following me. It didn’t make sense of course, as he was hardly the type of creature to be capable of stealth maneuvers, nor was the idea of his stalking me in his best interests after an attempt on my life. In retrospect, it’s quite obvious to me: that if he had taken to the idea of finding me and coming after me again, he surely wouldn’t have been lurking around in the shadows when he did; he’d have finished the job he had failed at before, without a second thought. He was never very standoffish about anything, especially something he was passionate about. Despite the “inner-boxing match” that raged in my psyche over this fact, at the time, I always found a way to convince myself that I wasn’t safe, and neither was anyone who was around me.

It’s peculiar, even in hindsight: the way that my mind worked as the result of being a battered woman; for even the short period of time (in comparison to 30+ years) that I was a full-blown victim of Domestic Terrorism, I was paralyzed with fear and hopelessness.

I had come to grips with what I had accepted as being my fate as the victim. My very livelihood had seemingly been rendered broken and out of luck, I remember feeling those things and perceiving them as reality in my former life. Because of those raw and fresh memories, there hasn’t been a single day since the first day that I cleared my head of the Morphine haze and hospital sounds and went home, that I have allowed to pass me by without being truly awestruck by the reality that I am walking around, breathing, reading, writing and simply being alive and able to do what I want.

As much I as I regret everything about those years of my life in that mental  paralysis, without having my throat violently cut by my abusive and psychopathic ex-husband, I’d still be so clueless about so many of the human elements in the world that define who we are at the end of each day; I’d still be in the dark about so many essential and divisive things, and I would have missed the bonds I’ve built with so many people who’ve were pushed into my life as a direct result of my “victimization”.

The EMTs who rode in the ambulance with me, two total strangers to me – men who I’d never seen before in my life, one who was on a ride-along as part of his final week before retirement from the field – somehow becoming a magical, human-esque bandage and acting as tourniquet around my neck and face to cut off the flow of blood pressure before I finally blacked out completely; I remember the older man (who has become like a surrogate Dad in the years since that tragic morning) barking orders at me to “stay awake!” and “Breathe!”. When I came to in the hospital 2 weeks later, that same older EMT was at my bedside in a chair with a fishing and wildlife magazine, reading about the things he was going to do now that he had retired. Jack became one of my staunchest allies, he cried tears of joy when I got to leave the hospital, he has become a stationary fixture in my life since that time. He has introduced me to many (if not most) of the elements that define my current life; Jack is the reason that I was lucky enough to learn the lessons involved with volunteerism in my community and the importance of it (which in turn, has worked out to be the sole purpose that I have been able to hold on to any of my sanity throughout the aftermath of my violent injury).

I’d have never gotten that gift had I not been victimized during Jack’s last ambulance shift: bleeding my very life out.

These are just some things I think about sometimes when I start to feel sorry for myself or whatever…

Blessings, blessings – everywhere.