Of Mice and Monsters V

One of the first rules that I learned, was that I was always to leave the room when he logged onto his computer. Even though I knew of his penchant for sadism, I knew that it must hold secrets.

One night he fell asleep and had forgotten to log off his computer. Being the risk-taker that I am, I decided to poke around in all his photos while he slept. He loved photos. Loved porn. He especially loved pics of naked women in compromising positions. In particular, fetish photography. It always bothered me and made me feel insecure. I wondered why I wasn’t enough for him. Why he needed to look at thousands of photos of women to feel happy, but I felt happy with only him. It made me feel like I was less than, ugly, and unworthy all the time.

What I found that night left me shellshocked. It was in a folder titled “furniture .” In it, were some photos of various pieces of furniture, but there was also another folder titled “house.” In that, there were about ten photos of a home inside and exterior as well as another folder called “birds.” It went on this way such that there were many embedded folders perhaps twenty deep. At the core folder I found an unlabeled folder containing photos of a woman who had sustained severe trauma to her body. Wide circular hematomas across her abdomen and kidney area maybe 6-9 inches in diameter. Dark purple bruising on her thighs and buttocks. Most bruises were bright purple , others on her body were blue. The man’s hand next to the woman’s body in some of the photos was sporting a watch which I immediately recognized as my boyfriends. I knew this was his handiwork. What I didn’t know was whether this woman was deceased.

I heard him stirring in bed and calling my name and all I had time to do was to minimize the screen on the pc and run back to bed.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry you got caught or sorry for what you found.”

I thought.

“I’m scared at what I found on your computer.”

“What scared you.”

“The woman with all the bruises.”

“Ahhhhhhhh.”

“Is she dead?”

“No.”

Everything that happened, she wanted to happen. It was all consensual.

What exactly happened?

She asked me to close fist punch her. She was coming out of a very painful divorce and was in a lot of emotional pain. She wanted to experiment and try something like this. To take away her emotional pain.

I don’t believe that someone would want something like that. She could have gotten internal injuries with where you hit her. Whether she wanted it or not you could have been dealing with a homocide.

I can assure you I went back and checked on her many times. Would you like me me to call her? I can tell you that she is very much alive.

“No.”

Once again, I knew that whomever he would dig up on a phone line it wasn’t necessarily going to be the woman in the photos. My mind raced,’Who would WANT to be close fist punched like that over their spleen and liver and kidneys?’

Nothing added up.

Yet, I continued to stay with him. Partly it was major denial….. because it was too hard to wrap my head around that he could have done it.  The majority of the time he was funny, gentle, kind, witty etc.  Partly it was fear…..because I was scared that if he was indeed dangerous and if I left maybe he would hurt me for leaving. But mainly for the obvious reason that no one wants to see. When you love someone, you want to believe that after so many years in with this person, that they  love you back.   That it couldn’t have been all fake.  And because he’s not doing that monstrous thing that he did to that lady in the photos to me.

Then comes the horrific afterthought,  “yet.”

Of Mice and Monsters IV

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Lots of people share things about each other with their partner as they go along in their relationship.  Once I had learned that he was a sexual sadist, I began asking him about it, particularly the origins of how this came to be.  I am inquisitive by nature, and he knew this.   “It”  came out of the closet along with a barrage of my questions.   Was he abused as a child?  Was he bullied?  Did he ever hurt animals?  Had he ever been arrested? Had he ever set fires?  and so on.

He told me three stories.

In 6th grade a girl at his new school was bothering him.  She was a girl who stood with him at his bus stop and was repeatedly calling him names and making fun of him.  It is important to note that this man is 6′ 2″ tall when I was with him, so that by sixth grade it is likely he was fairly tall as well.  He said that he told her to stop a few times and when she didn’t he punched her square in the mouth.  This gave her a fat and bloody lip,  that she began crying and then ran away back home.  As he was telling the story he was smiling.  He was forced to apologize to her but he said he felt no remorse, he said she got what she deserved.  It’s pretty unusual for a boy to hit a girl at all, less so to punch, even less to target the face.

There was a kid in high school that was bullying him after school.   Waiting for him. Pushing him down, tripping him and hitting him whenever he got the chance.  This was and older kid.   He lived in a rural area with lots of fields and dirt roads.  After school one day he heard a crash and he ran out about a half mile behind his house to a massive field where kids used to race field cars.   There he came upon this boy who had bullied him.  He was in his field car he had been racing which had crashed into a tree head on and had burst into flames.   He said that he approached the car and realized that the kid was pinned behind the wheel.   The boy was screaming “help!”  “please help!!!”   But his pleas for help went unanswered.   My sadist boyfriend stood there motionless and watched as he burned to death.  He said” I have never heard screams like that before, he screamed for a long time.”  he told me.  He said his flesh first bubbled up and then melted off.

Now an adult and living in an apartment building, one night a cat was meowing and wouldn’t stop.   He told me it was bothering him, he couldn’t sleep.  So he got up and fashioned a garrote.  He dressed all in black and went outside and grabbed the cat.  He pulled the garrote around its neck and pulled as hard as he could.  He said that it began kicking and clawing in the air.  Then the cat lost control of its bladder and bowels, then it was lifeless.  The whole process was less than 3 minutes.   He took a plastic garbage bag and put its body in the trunk of his car and placed it the next day at his work in their dumpster.  He worked at a major law firm.

At the conclusion of these stories it left me numb.  Who was sitting in front of me? Then I grew terrified.   After that passed,  I returned to logic.  There was no doubt in my mind I was not only involved with a sexual sadist but a man who had definite signs of sociopathy. Two thoughts converged, one, I am with a very dangerous and violent man and second, I desperately wanted to believe none of his stories were true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Mice and Monsters III

 

 

 

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Of course I knew he might be into S&M when he asked me at the beginning of our relationship to enter into a BDSM contract.   I was walking in with my eyes wide open.   He said that the use of kink would build trust and bring us closer.   Closer than vanilla couples.    That, appealed to me after having been wounded by a would-be good guy in a “normal” long-term relationship.  He said it may involve some light bondage and pain but nothing that I wasn’t comfortable with.   That we would never do anything that I wasn’t comfortable with.  Which all felt like I was going to be in control of what going on.

The oldest trick in the book:  The illusion of control.

I was green at that time and knew nothing of this subculture.   I didn’t know jargon like: SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink).  He was certainly not going to tell me either.   That was the point, to leave me in the dark and to leave him with all the knowledge and power.

In due course I did learn that he like to inflict pain.  He like to spank using his hand.  He like to use a paddle, crop, flogger, whip, cane, nipple clamps, hot wax, Ben Wa balls, anal plugs, ropes, blindfolds, handcuffs, ball gags, whatever the hell he wanted.  Bloody yes he had all the tools a good dominant doing BDSM would have in his bag-o-tricks.

He asked me one night to go pick out some porn to watch for the evening.  This was awkward for me because at this point in my life, I had only seen maybe a few porn movies period.  He had an extensive porn library.  There was very little of what you could consider soft-porn. You know, mom getting pile-driven, doggy style in the bedroom.  I mean there was one like that and maybe two MILF type genre CD’s.  But the vast majority were really fucked up stuff.    Titles like: Granny’s Gone Wild: depicting elderly women getting poked, Transsexual 3-way Fun, Gangbangs 3,  Incest Fantasies, Down on the Farm,  Raw Pussy Hardcore Beatdown, Teens Bound 2 Cum,  Forced Fucking,  Hardcore Bitches-n-Pets.   I was in absolute shock but tried to look outwardly like I was okay with this.  I mean, I was such a people pleaser at this point in my life, God forbid, I might offend him by looking like the wind just got knocked out of me.

After viewing the titles, I deferred to him to pick one out and he picked one of the more violent films.  We sat naked in bed and began to watch.    The movie began with the young girl literally being first verbally degraded by two men.   I cringed.   Then it escalated with her being slapped across her face numerous times.  He sat motionless.   Then they began beating her down.   Kicking her a few times while she begged for them to stop.  More intense slapping, choking her, all the while degrading her verbally.  I watched in horror, not just at the film but more so at him.  For as he watched, he quickly got an erection with each scream she made, each plead, as the violence being inflicted upon her increased, the harder he got.   Conversely, I was so calcified from watching as if reflexively, I did put my bathrobe on.

I realised at that moment, I was sitting in bed with a sexual sadist.

And yet, my emotional connection to him wouldn’t allow me believe that.  I wanted to believe that this was just some sort of small piece of him.  That this couldn’t possibly real. Because he had the capability of being sweet.  Gentle.  Caring.  Yet this, what I was taking in right here, right now was incompatible with that sweet man.   This was a dichotomy.   One that I could not explain.  So I stuffed it away down into the recesses of myself where I could not even hear my own thoughts.

However, somewhere in me, deep down, I knew that the dream I had with this man of marriage, a home, raising kids, and a dog named Scruffy was all about to go right out the proverbial window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Germaphobe

 

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I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.

I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall.   Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it.   So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.

Next I begin prepping for the “hover”.  Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat.   Because I have germaphobia, I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided,  because God knows what might linger on that puppy.  Blowback, splatter, or spray.  Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye.   What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea?  dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering.  My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second.   I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze misting in through the air.

I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before I can even think of it, as “safe” to use.  Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.

Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no. I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room.  That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my OCD/ germaphobia variant.

Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab the door handle with and let myself out of the stall.  Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle down with the bottom of my shoe.

I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser.  I then wash my hands.   I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.

It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre.   A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens.  I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine.  I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.

Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior.   Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.

Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.

I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out.   I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.

Kool-Aid Jones: from Pulpit to Pinterest

You better believe that if renowned narcissist Jim Jones were alive and well today, he’d be reaching far more numbers of vulnerable and impressionable minds by writing a blog from an upscale flat in London than he ever did in the jungles of Guyana.  He’d still have his loyal following of devotee’s with their troubled pasts of trauma, broken childhoods, broken marriages, and broken dreams.  He would naturally espouse to have vast knowledge on how to remedy all that ails them.  He would peddle his special brand of elixir or “how-to” and offer to turn their lives from misery to sanctity and freedom.  All that he would ask is that they just put their faith and trust in him, their fearless and self-ascribed leader .

Like any good narcissist, he seeks unlimited success/power/love, admiration.  He has a grandiose self-worth and believes himself superior to others.  He has a lack of empathy well-hidden behind a seamless veneer of charm and charisma.  Has a sense of entitlement and possesses interpersonal exploitative behaviors.

In today’s day and age vampires have adapted.  They have no need to fear the daylight, for there are dark sunglasses and sunscreen.   So too, the modern-day Jones would dispense his Kool-Aid differently than his predecessor.   The pen has always been mightier than the sword, or in this case, the cyanide.   Our modern-day Jones would trade preaching for blogging.  He would use volumes of facts about narcissism offering to help others’ gain understanding.    Jones may perhaps don the Scarlet Letter and admit publicly to being a narcissist.  This would do two things:  through his blog he would both normalize and desensitize the topic of malignant narcissism as well as foster a cheerleading team for himself.  He could ensnare victims by creating an online support group via the comment section of his blog and most of them would naïvely walk into it and never seeing it for its dark potential.   His harem, a coterie of would be stand-ins vying for place as his next primary source should that crack at bat ever happen.   The real coterie’s purpose to him? anything he wants.  Since many subscribers have their profile linked to their social media, at his disposal are their emails, photos, and sometimes phone numbers.   He would most likely spend hours writing, cultivating, and pruning his blog as it would be no doubt a great source of ready-to-eat supply.     Simply put, narc heaven.

By the time our Kool-Aid Jones blog gets into the minds of subscribers, his words have already become like a slow-acting poison.  Eating away at them long-after he is gone.

Wait, he seems so benign our Kool-Aid Jones, is there really a need to run?

 

 

 

 

 

Of Mice and Monsters II

It smelled of mold and mildew down there.  The air always had a cold damp quality to it.  Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there.  All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food.  Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon.  I always thought it strange.  Then there was the safe.   The massive safe hidden behind the stairs.  Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe.  It was always one of those unspoken rules.   The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents.  The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling.  There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation.  They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes.  I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch  over.  Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open.  It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then.  The sheer and absolute terror.  The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement.  My mind began to race:   Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water.    That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.”  He pulled me in close and hugged me.   I felt relief, repulsion, anger….   The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me.  I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there.    It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed.  He intrigued me.  I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick.  But by then it was nearly too late for that.  For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Compass Rose

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’.  How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love.   He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him.   Some call it praying.  But it was more than that to me.  It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun.  We were close back then.  It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now.  I’d talk about everything.  Then listen.   Oh yes, He would answer.   He spoke through my intuition, I believe.  Sometimes I would ask for a sign.  Sometimes He would give me one:  a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church.  No one particular reason really and not in anger either.  Then a few years later I had stopped praying.   Other things had seemed to take precedence.  It was like one day He was just gone.  You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again?  it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations.  Something was severed.   And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him.   That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable.  The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more.  It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him.   I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip.   I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me.   Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home.   Hope that lost Faith will be found.