Monthly Archives: August 2013

Feminism: The Hard Way

If you’ve read my earlier blog posts it will be easy for you to understand why I would feel outraged by the dictation of false feminists. The idea that anyone would have a sense of entitlement not acheived through proper empathy or raw experience and yet strives to monitor and amend the language of those who wish to express their free thoughts on feminist issues is something I won’t endure passively.

The feminist movement is one that takes on a challenge which has been around for far too long. It’s getting better, sure, but we need to go further. I have met, read about, and have known personally many men whose voices add validity and power to the changes we still seek. The counterfeit feminist feels that she has no need for a male voice let alone a female voice that carries with it characteristics she deems negative. This brand of feminism is counterproductive. Every voice needs to be heard. Every voice lends a spin that is helpful to the cause. An attempt to silence these voices or label them offensive is a transgression that should be accosted.

The oppressors of women each have their own set of beliefs based on what they were taught and what they’ve experienced. The more methods we have for waking these individuals up the better our chances for bringing about change. The aspiring oppressor has an ingrained perception of how a woman should behave and how she should present herself to the world. I naturally and authentically do not fit inside this box. The mere words I utter shake some of them to their very core. It doesn’t take a concerted effort for me to draw attention toward my concept of equality. They may not soften enough to hear my words or comprehend the definition I offer today yet my words have a way of lingering and I’ve been fortunate enough to discover that down the road a bit something I said or wrote had struck a chord with a few of these individuals. They did not hesitate to convey to me that their prior notions have since changed. Some greatly, some slightly. I’ll take either or both. Any level of awakening is a good level. This history motivates me to continue on with an open and honest style of feminism.

Equality for women is not a game to be played where the women vs men bullshit is perpetuated. It is an ideal that offers all men and women an opportunity to benefit from a world full of humans that share not only the same rights and freedoms but the same responsibilities as well. Equal treatment gives birth to equal contribution and equal gain. Isn’t this the point?

There are many women who carry around the dogma of the oppressors. They live in a reality which has them believing they will be spared poor treatment if they join forces with those who desperately hang on to perceived power over all women. It’s a grievous mistake to be sure. Nothing feeds the ravenous ego of a maniacal tyrant more than a sycophant. These two personality types are a cyclical mess of horseshittery. I haven’t the inclination to address this aspect at the moment although it should be confronted. I’ll work on that.

My primary objective for writing this post is to express my aversion to those that call themselves feminists and yet spend their time and energy on supervising the expressions of true male and female feminists that are in the fight to win the fight. Some of these genuine warriors use dignified speech that pierces the minds of those who stand on the property lines of human behavior. This method often works well to spark new thought and change. I’m all for it. As well, some of those who strive for equality use language that may be jarring to the listener. Let’s face it, many of these stubborn authoritative types have thick skulls. They respond with initial shock which, if taken advantage of correctly and in a timely manner, can offer a moment of malleability. That’s where seeds are planted. That’s where thoughts have the potential to grow. It is the latter skill that I and many of my fellow freedom fighters have honed. We’re good at it and it’s natural for us. Riding side by side with the eloquent speakers, we can make great strides.

So I say to all of you fucked up cunts who feign a place within the conviction called The Feminist Movement… shut the mother fuck up, step aside and let the bona fide yet eloquent along with the true yet brash feminists express themselves accordingly. We’re paying attention to the issues and are open to a variety of ways in which they can be addressed. You don’t get to decide how another speaks. Your opinion that if certain words are used they will defeat the purpose of the movement is not even close to being correct. In fact you are taking up the mantle of the oppressor and fucking yourself in the head with it. Be quiet for a minute already. Pay close attention to what you are asking of us. You may just learn something about how far you’ve actually come as opposed to how far along you believe yourself to be.

I am never done learning, not until my last breath. One thing I’ve already absorbed is those who seek to silence speech have something to be afraid of. Stay vocal.

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A Whirlwind Goodbye

Standing in the middle of my kitchen, the images of all that I’ve experienced in this house of horrors swirled around me.  My five dogs were sitting there with their heads cocked to one side. I looked into each of their beautiful faces and wondered how I could possibly live without them. I’ve spent years with these guys. The youngest was two, the oldest was nine. I trained some of them as puppies and frequently retrained them all as they grew older. Each one is precious with their own quirks and their unique position within the pack. My husband knew that every pup he brought home would be like an emotional anchor around my neck. Surely I would not abandon them. He counted on that. But my day of departure was drawing near and the probability of being able to bring them with me didn’t exist. For one thing my husband would use that as an excuse to hunt me down. One more excuse, that is. The other reason being that these dogs needed all of the space they had become accustomed to. The yard was huge and fenced in. They loved playing out there for hours each day. They weren’t tiny dogs either. The lightest one weighed 70 pounds. The heaviest was 115 pounds. They were happy here. Taking them to a tiny apartment just to satisfy my guilt and maintain my attachment would only amount to a self-serving gesture. I needed to let them go.

As I continued to develop my plan for leaving I was amazed at how this was all going undetected by the monster. For someone who put so much energy into breaking my spirit he sure as shit didn’t have a bit of mental access to radar. I’m not complaining, mind you. Throughout this termination process I was still fighting off sexual assaults like a boss. My demand for my own well-being was strong. He grew tired of the immense struggle it took for him just to get off. During the last two weeks of my stay he found himself a new target. For the sake of full disclosure, I must admit, I couldn’t believe my luck. Could it really be this easy to slip out of here while he’s preoccupied with his new obsession? As it turns out, no. He felt entitled to us both. A repulsive yet real truth. I wrestled with the idea of leaving my dogs as well as my responsibility to this woman. I knew way more than she did about him. I knew what he was capable of. As I witnessed their quasi-courtship I felt intensely conflicted about where my ethical obligations rested. I was focused on the details of my escape plan and that served as a convenient, although temporary, distraction from these outrageous choices as they merged with his torment of me. I was being fucked in every way I could have ever imagined possible. Regardless, this was no time for a ‘woe is me’ meditation. So I walked forward.

The last few days in that house felt as though I was training to compete in a cliff diving competition. One minute I would be rational and practical, the next I would be shaking from head to toe with a swell of nausea that left me weak. It didn’t matter. I knew that pushing through this wasn’t going to kill me. Armed with that reality I stepped into my final phase of victimhood. My friend who had sent me the money for the apartment called frequently now. I still felt rather removed from others emotionally but I chose to roll with it despite my lack of trust in any human being. It was also during this last phase that my youngest sister reemerged into my periphery. I had decided to take the risk of rejection and call her. She did not hesitate to respond with warmth and compassion as I let her in on the life I had been living for the last few years. She thought I was the one that had rejected her all along. Now she knew and not only did she accept this information she began calling frequently as well. Now I had two women, very strong women, applauding my efforts from the sidelines on a daily basis. Everything felt so close to being over. I could see the finish line and I wanted so badly to bust through that ribbon. I just didn’t feel as though I deserved the peace on the other side. I would be leaving behind creatures that I loved with all my heart as well as a woman who had no idea what she was facing. I had choices to make. Crazy, ball-breaking, heart wrenching choices.

Two days out until takeoff and I was washing the dishes when I heard a knock on the door. It was the jerk-off’s girlfriend. I opened the door and welcomed her inside. She explained that she thought he would be there, I told her he wasn’t but that I’d like to speak with her. She pulled up a stool as did I, around the island in the kitchen. She was quite nervous and her vulnerability pulled a level of empathy from me that left me feeling somewhat satisfied about the nature of my character. I began telling her what has gone on over the years and that I felt she was heading for a disaster that she may not be able to survive. I was careful not to be overly dramatic in my speech and maintained a matter of fact tone. It was imperative that she believe me. She was so smitten with him, understandably so. He was stunningly handsome, had a substantial income and knew how to weave a great web. She was the new fly. As I revealed my experiences she began shaking her head from side to side. She was unable to hear me at all. They had only been together for a brief time but whatever was missing in her she was sure she had found in him. There was no way she was going to let me take that away from her. I didn’t reveal my plans to leave. I could see that she had already formed an allegiance to him. I tried more gentle persuasion but she wasn’t having any of it. I had to move on. I wasn’t about to go down that rabbit hole ever again. She would have to go it alone. I gave her my best effort. I risked too much in doing so. My best needs to be enough.

Although my choices were made I continued to feel a sense of dread and the anticipation of utter regret. I’m grateful to this day that my ability to adhere to logic was stronger than my creeping remorse. I worked my first day of my new job and came home ready to push myself through this strangulating birth canal. I quickly gathered  some clothes and toiletries placing them in a small canvas bag. I was going to have to make do with what I could grab and make a run for it. The symptoms of acute anxiety nearly swallowed me whole. I kept walking. Heading toward the door as fast as I could knowing he would be home soon, I stopped dead in my tracks. My dogs had been following my every step. Curious, as is their nature. I hadn’t really noticed it in all my scurrying but here we were. Standing face to face at the door to the outside. A door that became a symbol of all my choices and my passage to freedom. I loved and hated that door at once. I knelt down and took each sweet face into my hands, one at a time. I spoke with them gently and deliberately. I knew intellectually that I was doing this for myself but still, I’d like to believe they understood somehow. “I love you so much. Thank you for loving me through all of this. I’m sorry. Be good to each other. Goodbye”.

I stood up, turned toward the door and rotated the handle. Stepping outside I drew my keys from my pocket. As I locked the mechanism behind me I took a long, deep breath. Then, for the last time, I walked away.

This had been a most difficult and challenging period for me. When we call on ourselves to reach a higher level of awareness we sometimes can’t see the impending consequences. For every action we take, every choice we make, there are chips falling. Where they land can be perceived as one more opportunity to understand ourselves that much more. In taking risks that demanded a leap of faith I am satisfied, finally, with my outcome.

 

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Uphill Both Ways

After several months of addressing my psychological health along with my appearance, I knew I had to put my intentions into action. I had to get out of there and I needed to be able to support myself. When the prick thought I was at an appointment I ran around town looking for any job I could find. The preceding years’ lack of employment was not in my favor. I had to sell myself and I had to be good at that. My vision’s inability to tolerate daylight along with my deficit in conversational skills were rather obvious. Eyes watering and word salad do not make for a great interview. I didn’t care. I knew this wouldn’t be easy and I was determined to see it through. The confusion on the faces of some potential employers could have caused me to feel insecure but having just survived the most humiliating experiences a person could face made their reactions insignificant. This was about getting my life back. If they weren’t going to give me a job I needed to move on and find someone who would. And so I did.

I went into a large retail establishment that I had worked in when I was first married. I had been attending college at that time and their flexible hours suited my schedule then. I was averse to heading in their direction initially because I wanted a truly fresh start but with all the rejections my options were dwindling. I headed right for the manager’s office. My former supervisor took one look at me and tears welled up in her eyes. She could see the damage that had been done. I said, “Please don’t cry for me, I need a fucking job, I need it now”. She embraced me and I pushed her away, I couldn’t handle that level of acceptance at the time. She hired me on the spot. I began working the following week.

During the time that I was waiting to start my job, out of nowhere one of my dearest childhood friends called my home. I was stunned. She asked how I had been doing and explained that she wasn’t going to tolerate my absence anymore. I spilled the whole truth. She was the first person in my former intimate circle to hear what had been going on over the last several years. Furious, she began brainstorming. I let her know that I was starting a job in a few days and that it may take several more months but that I was going to get out of that nightmare. She wasn’t having it. She insisted on sending me enough money for first month’s rent and a security deposit. I conveyed to her that any mail which arrives at my home is kept from me. A check would surely not end up in my hands. I had told her of my therapist earlier in the conversation. She suggested that she contact him and see if he would be willing to accept the money on my behalf and give it to me at my next appointment. I felt resistant to the idea but I had made a promise to myself that I would take any help that I could get so I submitted to it. She contacted him and he contacted me. The deal was done. Now to find a new home.

Within a day or two after my interaction with my former now current-again supervisor, she decided to tell a few people I was coming back to work there and I was also looking for an apartment. One of my co-workers jumped on the task and called me to say she had found a small place that was close to the store. She had contacted the landlord and set up an appointment for me for that same evening. I was so overwhelmed by all of this good-natured assistance. It blew my mind. Now I had to figure out an excuse for leaving the house that night. I knew I couldn’t use the therapy appointment as a reason, I would be needing that to obtain the money he was holding for me should I find a place to live. I decided on a grocery run. When my personal Ted Bundy checks the receipt and rages over any discrepancy I’ll just have to wing it. After all, speaking with a landlord takes more than five minutes and I still have to come home with food. Fuck it. I was willing to take the risk. It was worth it. So was I.

I headed out that evening shaking all the while. Being on the cusp of a level of freedom I previously never dared to ponder was a consideration  that stimulated all of my emotions and yet I had to push aside every one of them to allow for reason and logic to rule my choices. I arrived at the landlord’s home in the next town over. She was an elderly woman whose husband was currently in the hospital fighting cancer. She was frail but confident. We had a brief chat then she showed me the apartment around the back of her home. It was small and very dark, not many windows. And that is what made it so perfect. I could allow for my eyes to adjust to natural light over time while coming and going. Being tucked away in the back of the residence allowed for the seclusion I had become so familiar with. Just being around people and having typical conversations was exhausting. I had to keep my reemergence on a pace that wouldn’t defeat my goals. I told her I would take it. She said that she would need a deposit to hold it for me. I panicked. I asked her with all sincerity if she could give me until the next night. For some reason she agreed. The next evening I went to my therapist’s office for a bullshit appointment. He met me outside with the money and told me how proud he was while encouraging me to stay safe. I gave him the “yeah, yeah, I gotta go” response and he laughed right out loud. His confidence in my success was apparent. I headed back to my new residence and plopped down the money. The landlord smiled from ear to ear and said, “I had so hoped you would come back. I think you’ll be very happy here”. She was right. I certainly was.

I’ll continue to unravel this story for you as I’m interested in offering the details with the hope that someone may find what they previously considered to be impossible is now quite possible. Woman and children are living in conditions similar to what I’ve described here even as you read this. Everyone deserves an opportunity to live the life they desire for themselves. Those that stand in the way of another’s freedom and peace must be disarmed.

I described a couple of events in this post that may seem to some to be miraculous or more than coincidental. For example my old friend calling ‘out of the blue’ or the co-worker finding that apartment for me at just the right time. Make no mistake, I see none of this as miraculous. Every human being in this story made their own choices for their own reasons. If the supernatural existed, if God was real and all-powerful, not to mention all-loving, I wouldn’t have been nearly destroyed in such a barbaric manner to begin with. My well thought out plans along with my drive to be free combined with a history I had created with my former friends and coworkers should receive all the credit for how this went down. We each gave our best. We earned what we accomplished. Human beings are capable of making things happen. God isn’t.

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Me and Dr Ballbreaker

As I embarked on my chosen experience of being reparented I kept a close watch on the behaviors of both my psychiatrist and my psychologist. They were each male and exhibited great professionalism. I’ll refer to my psychiatrist as Dr Dad, my psychologist as Dr Ballbreaker. Dr Dad put everything in motion. He had his contingencies as did I. He agreed to mine and his were that I be honest about my physical state at all times, that I show up at least once a week for behavioral therapy, every three weeks for an assessment by him and that I promise not to attempt suicide. If I missed one session with my therapist or Dr Dad all bets were off. I had been able to respond well to structure for my mere survival so this was easy for me to adhere to. Suicide was not an option. There were several times I knew I was likely going to expire and a handful of times that I wished I could die in those moments for the physical relief it would bring but suicide just isn’t my thing. And so we began.

My first session with Dr Ballbreaker was quite irritating to me. He was mild-mannered and quite intelligent. He was also a bit smug. He assumed by the way I looked (many marks from pulling at and picking my skin on my face, neck and hands to self-soothe and of course the ever attractive missing teeth) that I was out of my mind for laying out my plan for therapy with precision and determination. I also had a strong feeling that he resented being the one guy in the practice that had been assigned to me as there were several doctors on staff. No matter, we were stuck with each other. He began asking questions along the lines of, “How was your day”. Really? Dude, I’ve got work to do. I began by telling him about the very recent death of one of my dogs. That Moishe’s death had left me feeling utterly hollow. Dr B was an animal lover as well so we were able to meet there. Then he moved into what brought me to therapy. I froze, shocking even myself. What if I tell him and he decides to intervene after all? I would be dead in a matter of hours. So I became silent. He tried other ways of prodding. I sat there giving him the ‘fuck you’ gesture with my middle finger. I simply held it there for about 20 minutes. Staring at him, trying to intimidate him. He wasn’t having any of it. Dr B just kept asking questions as if I was answering them in tandem. Finally I said, “I think the session is over”. He replied, “Okay, see you in a few days”. Fuck! There was no way out of this now. I couldn’t imagine if we would succeed, all of us together. I was afraid that they would feel compelled to intervene. I trusted no one. I was fucked. I went home and played the obedient wife as if nothing was in motion because at that point I couldn’t see what was already beginning to transpire.

My next two sessions with Dr Ballbreaker were more contentious. He decided to fight back. I told him I felt he lacked the competence to get me where I wanted to be. He responded by telling me that while I was clearly intelligent enough to work this through he doubted I had the spine for it. Very good move on his part. But I wouldn’t budge. He decided to give me a test to take home. It would take maybe 1.5 to 2 hours to complete. He said it would help him see exactly what level of psychological damage I may be presenting. I agreed to take the test. I love tests. That was the only motivation I had. He handed it to me, I told him to go fuck himself and he said to have a great few days, “Jen”. The balls on this guy!

The day came to reveal to me the results of the test. We had scheduled a long session. I sat there as he read me the entire thing. Every now and then he would look up to see my reaction to the devastating information I was hearing. I held it together for a while knowing I would begin to sob at any moment. He could see that, and kept going. Wise man, indeed. According to this test I was the fucking personification of meshuggeneh. Toward the end Dr B gave me his summary. He said he wasn’t sure if I could get beyond the damage to my mind. I was incapable of trusting anyone, I was lost in the confusion of having been the sole target of a madman’s rage while all along knowing it wasn’t personal. Nothing made sense and yet I was functioning as if it did. There was a lot to break through and break down. Dr B stopped speaking. My tears came on. Full force. There was no fucking way I was going to accept permanent damage to my mind. It’s all I had. Throughout the entire ordeal, years of beatings, unspeakable torture and even bringing his friends in for rape fests, the one thing in my body that didn’t betray me was my mind. I fucking love my brain. It’s the best one ever. No disrespect to all of you Mensa members out there, but I have so much fun with my brain that I can’t imagine a better one. I wasn’t going to give it up without a mother fucker of a fight. Dr Ballbreaker had finally broken my balls. He hit the one thing I cherished more than anything else. He strategically threatened it. He asked why I was crying, as I explained, he welled up with tears too. He gets it. I now trust him.

Over the next several months I filled my weeks with dental appointments, therapy appointments, consults with Dr Dad and writing my contemplations down almost daily then mailing them to Dr B for safe keeping while continuing to convince my husband that nothing was changing. The double life aspect was truly exhausting although well worth it.

Dr Ballbreaker and I just kept climbing. One day when I entered the office to sign in the receptionist began to weep. I was confused and said as much. Dr B came over and conveyed to me that the staff were truly amazed at the transformation they had witnessed. None of them knew any of the details of my experiences but he assured me that the physical changes were dramatic. I didn’t see it but I believed him. Anyway the receptionist was fucking crying. That’s telling. Am I right?

There were several times when my husband took a fleeting notice of something changing in me. He was turned on by the physical changes but I chose to take the hits over the rapes. Fuck him. It didn’t always work but I felt right about my choice. He also continued his spontaneous and unexpected physical attacks. One day I turned around in the driveway coming back from retrieving the metal trash cans left on our street. He grabbed one of the lids bouncing it hard off of my face. I just kept walking. Bleeding the whole way back into the house. Washed away the blood, applied pressure to the wound and went on with my day. These days were coming to an end. And I knew it.

In therapy we covered everything from my childhood on up. It was interesting to observe my perceptions changing over time. Some from maturity others from experience. Revisiting things that made me happy or sad in the past was a worthwhile effort. Being able to watch the event again in one’s mind but this time with a wisdom unknown back then affords us the opportunity to wrap the experience in another package. That exercise can relieve us of so much weight. I highly recommend it. Dr B and I worked hard every session. He moved my appointments to the end of his work day. Poor guy. I definitely took him on a ride. Each session I showed up with a list of 3 things I wanted to accomplish before our next meeting. I demanded it from myself and he helped me to set up a structure in which to achieve my goals. I wanted to feel confidence, worthiness and fearlessness. There were a few mental obstacles standing in my way, PTSD being one with its many manifestations. I needed to learn how to manage it all. I had to give it my best shot.

Down the road from all of this work the escape plan began to develop. I met with a few ethical challenges during this time. I plan to describe all of that in my next post. Oh, and god nor faith had any influence on this experience. Reason being, they’re bullshit. Amen.

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Pieces Of A Scary Puzzle

One day, several years ago, I crawled on my hands and knees out of a situation that was nothing short of my worst nightmare. I had been living with a man whom I had married five years prior. I left with more than I had when I entered that home. I left with the knowledge that I, and I alone, am completely responsible for the conditions of my life and my perception of them. The action I took that day set in motion a journey through unchartered territory. The excitement of that prospect still inspires me now. Although I had many scars, less teeth, a permanently injured back and a big fat dose of PTSD, I still had more. Much more.

I remember moving into that house with high hopes for an exciting future. I had a decent job and was attending college. I was ambitious in both keeping myself on the dean’s list while maintaining a supervisory position at work. I truly believed that I was on the right track. I insisted on projecting a positive attitude even when things started to change. I really never saw it coming. And that’s what gaslighting is all about. One piece of me at a time was being chiseled away and I didn’t see it until I was almost gone. And no, faith didn’t save me. As a matter of fact it seemed to have abandoned me. Of course that’s inaccurate because how could something that does not provide any tangibles abandon anything? At that point I didn’t have the luxury of time for contemplation. I was surviving one moment at a time. I was forced into isolation by the threat of serious physical harm. Isolation is something I’m quite capable of enduring. As a matter of fact I prefer it. The problem with this isolation is that it was actually solitary confinement. My options were removed. There were days, sometimes weeks on end, that using the bathroom was prohibited. When I was permitted to use the facilities, he came along to supervise. Needless to say my organs were not capable of normal function. That in itself was a deliberate method of dehumanizing me. If I was sent to the store alone for groceries I was expected to return immediately. He would be waiting by the door or even in the driveway to check the mileage and the time stamp on the receipt from the market. If anything was off, even by one second, there would be hell to pay.

There was a time I attempted to escape. It ended with him finding me and beating me brutally. Choking, punching and ultimately kicking the shit out of me with his steel-tipped boots while I curled up in fetal position trying desperately to protect my head with my hands and arms. That left my back exposed and he certainly took full advantage of it. When it was finally over, as he stepped back with a sense of pridefulness. I raised my head cautiously to access the situation. In that moment the blood gushing from a cut above my eye flowed and continuously obstructed my vision. I decided to stay down until I knew he had left the room. I recovered eventually and almost completely. Without the help of medical professionals naturally. Rarely do victims of domestic violence ever see the inside of an emergency room.

This is as much as I’m willing to reveal at this time. There are more instances and varieties of the violence and methodical torture I endured during those years but I have learned that even the most seasoned psychiatric, legal, and law enforcement professionals can cry or become sick when exposed to this horrific reality. Many think they want to know the details. They are almost always wrong. I am quite willing to accept that the images in my head and the torment they periodically provoke are mine alone to experience. I’ve worked for years with therapists who knew I craved the closest thing to recovery I could get. They knew I was willing to do whatever work would be necessary to understand what happened, why it happened (his psychosis) and ultimately to harvest every fucking benefit I could from those years. I deserved that. And I got it. Later in this post I describe how these professionals and I began our work together.

I laugh to myself now when I read a statement by someone or actually hear them say  how they would handle it if they were to find themselves as the target of a series of barbaric, violent beatings and rapes. How they would fight back and surely get away even if there was more than one perpetrator or a firearm to their head as there was in many of my experiences.  It’s a whole different ball game when you come face to face with a violent, calculating and determined psychotic individual. Add to that, this disturbed person is your spouse, your partner. His predatory nature was operating the moment he met me. He chose me as the object of his desire in ways only someone who has experienced this specific kind of hell can comprehend. That word, object, is the most telling part of the whole experience for me. The objectification itself cleared the path to understanding what had really happened there. It’s that concept that allowed me to realize that my personality, my attitude, my IQ, the way I look, my background – everything about me that makes me Jen – was inconsequential. I was meaningless in this situation. I was a body and that is all. I went on for a couple of years seeing this shit-storm through the lens of emotion. I negotiated, pleaded, and begged for each incident to end. All to no avail. I finally was able to see that my emotions, although a natural reaction to such events, were not serving me in any way. And if I myself didn’t truly factor into this equation, what did? I had to get out of my own way. I needed to remove the subjective me-ness and look at this situation from intellect alone. This revelation changed my life completely. To this day it’s the thought process I function within. So there I was. Armed with the facts. I don’t factor in here. No attempt at emotional manipulation will save me. Also, this mother fucker is nuts. No reasoning with him, no offers of logical alternatives would even have anywhere to land. It was up to me to find my way out. My family by this point had been completely cut off as were my very few close friends. It was time to stand the fuck up and walk.

I somehow was able to convince Nutjob that I should see a doctor to help me become more compliant and that it would really assist him in keeping me under control. This worked like a charm. I know, I can’t believe it either but I’m certainly grateful that it did. Off to a team of outstanding professionals I went. Right down the street from our home. Crazypants had a good job with amazing medical benefits so I waved that around in the doctor’s office to insure I had their attention. On my first visit I laid out precisely what I wanted to achieve. The rebuilding of my self-worth and my personality. I wanted to take advantage of the fact that my original foundation was obliterated. I was keenly aware that I could start from the bottom and by my own specifications, reparenting myself with the goal of fearless badass being my final result. I had one doctor for psychiatric supervision and another for cognitive behavioral therapy. They chose to accept the challenge. The one condition I lay bare before them was that I expected complete and utter confidentiality no matter how enraged they may become by what I was about to expose them to. If they chose to intervene I’d be thwarted. With each of us signing on the proverbial dotted line I began my climb toward freedom.

In a little under a year I had managed to keep my growing awareness under wraps at home. I guarded my hand with great determination. The details of this process will be coming in a future post. For now just know I succeeded. Since then I have offered my experience to anyone who feels they can gain anything from it. My manner of seeing my situation from a more clinical perspective is at times off-putting to some. I understand that intellectually but I have no interest in nor could I change a function that is an organic part of me and the way my brain works. It’s that function that served me best then and continues to do so today.

One final note. In reading the blog entries posted by @JoshuaDamnIt I felt like I may just be understood after all. I strongly suggest you follow him on Twitter and follow his blog.

As for me?  To be continued.

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August 20, 2013 · 4:04 pm