Of Mice and Monsters VII

Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston. 

So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”

I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.

He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”

So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?


Did you have anything to do with these?”


Then…..quiet laughter.

Then, “goodnight Lexi.”

Then the phone hung up.

The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective.   I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.

Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot.  He told me he would “ keep a report on file.”  This I knew to be a lie.  I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law.  I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.

I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.

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!!”


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.










Good Girl



I don’t care what you have ever seen or read about Fifty Shades of Grey,  it’s all bullshit.  At the outset, all I want is to please and want to do what he says and all that; I guess it IS like that.    And I suppose in the beginning maybe I would’ve eaten a piece of dog-shit or something for him.

But this was 3 years in.   And the lashings with his cane and whip or hand or paddle had grown kind of old .    And the formality of saying “yes, daddy” had worn me thin.

One particular night, he had bragged he wanted to make me bark like a dog.

One of his fucked-up whims I guess.

Like any good girl I told him to fuck off  that I wasn’t going to  bark like any dog .   He insisted and dragged me to the bed and said,” then I will make you.”

I quipped ,”no matter how many times you take the cane to me, or the flogger, or the paddle,   you will not make me bark like a dog. It’s just not going to happen. You will not break me.”

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown and I knew it.  But I was confident that I would be the victor.  That he would tire before I.

He threw down lash after lash.  Each time stopping long enough to pause and ask, “are you going to bark now?”

With each blow I tried to deal with the pain by biting into the comforter hard, as he bore down into my flesh.  Now, some submissives are masochists but I am not.  Some go to a dissociative place and leave their body, I did not.  I just bit down and braced for it.   Maybe I’ll write Submissives for Dummies as a helpful guide on how to take a lashing and more.   I’m certain it would be a bestseller….Pffft.

I was already bruised from his blows and felt it but didn’t want him to win.  I hate losing.  I despise weakness.   At the next go round, I’d grown angry.  I asked, “If our roles were reversed I wonder how many lashings you could take? Oh that’s right you would have pussied out by now.”

Then he hit me harder and atop of the bruises he had just inflicted.  Dirty….dirty…. underhanded bastard I thought.

I knew in that moment he would win.

He leaned in and asked for the final time, “are you ready to bark yet?

Woof.”  I said quietly. 

He said, “say it louder.


WOOF!” I yelled.

That’s my good girl, ” he replied.

Initially I wanted to be him that day, the one with all the power; the one wielding the implements.   But then I realized that I had power of a different sort.  That this sexual sadist craved me.  I was his canvas and he needed to mainline me.  By me pushing his buttons and challenging him, I created how this entire night went.

Good girl indeed.

Just drink the Kool-aid

Today’s session with the shrink was rough.  Nothing fun about sitting and  have them stare at you while you try to cough up your feelings that are too painful and shameful to utter aloud.  So instead you put on a good personae and artfully try to dodge the elephant sitting on your heart that you wish you had the balls to say, but your too much of a pussy to.  For if you do, you can risk looking like an asshole or worse getting hurt.

It took me awhile to get the courage up to spit out what I was hemming and hawing about saying for 40 minutes.  Nearly the entire session.

It has taken me weeks to get to the point of even mustering that up.  The emotions carry that much shame for me to say.

The thing I said well, it makes me feel weak, embarrassed, vulnerable, powerless.   All feelings I HATE.  All feelings I don’t have skills to tolerate very well.

But I did finally spit it out, because I want to get well and I think that puking up what’s hard to do, will get me there.


I guess I’m blindsided by her response.

She was like, “no, you don’t really feel that way do you?” and she kinda laughed.

Then I felt humiliated on top of the existing shame…..  Mother fucker.   I wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and die.

She has no fucking idea.   And that’s largely my fault.  For the better of thirty fucking years I have learned to “present well,” so that no one knows what’s really going on.

I do it so well, I can mostly turn it off and on like a light switch…..mostly.


Sitting there in that chair in her office feeling ashamed, it flooded my brain with similar events that I tried to bury a long time ago.

Especially the young, impish, fractured, splintered off part of myself I thought I could seal behind a wall and bury alive.

But that girl’s muffled voice broke through from behind the bricks today choking back her pitiful fucking tears.


There she is again, from behind the woman veneer.

Stirring somewhere from latent consciousness.

Crystallized….and I’m still paralyzed.

I seem to walk through life, reflexively, a continuous loop of internal thought patterns,“I am bad.  unliked,  unwanted,  unaccepted….. I am un-lovable.”


When I told my shrink how I felt about her, she replied that I must be wrong……  It stung.   Walls went up.

Usually, I reject me before anyone else can hurt me.    Well, I fucked up.


I am ashamed….of me.

I am realizing that shame is a bigger part of my emotional make-up than I ever knew. It’s inescapable presence envelops me like a blanket.

If I don’t deal with “it”, I will continue to live in misery.

Before today’s session I might have passed for an average girl, walking with a seeming look of purpose, unfettered by any stress. And in some ways, I guess that would have been true.

I left however, restricting my gaze downward to the cobblestone street, tears staining my cheeks, reflecting the ugliness I still hold inside.

Ugliness from which I haven’t been yet able to wriggle free.


BDSM and bondage isn’t always about rope and submission.

The riskiest scenes take place on the inside, with the chains that bind our very soul.


Gustave Doré’s Illustration in Milton’s “Paradise Lost”

“It is easy–terribly easy–to shake a man’s faith in himself.  To take advantage of that to break a man’s spirit is devil’s work”

–George Bernard Shaw

~*~      ~*~     ~*~

I am not proud to admit this but lately I am filled with bitterness and resentment.  No wait, that would be a gross fucking understatement.  Enough anger floats through my stream of consciousness, that I have fantasies and daydreams that I tell my shrink about.  Fantasies not of a happy return to my ex,  but fantasies of how to exact revenge upon him.  How to bring him to his fucking knees with the same emotional gut wrenching state of pain that he has inflicted upon me, so that he knows what it’s like.   There is a huge difference between fantasy and reality and I know that difference.  I am not stupid enough to throw my life away over a man or end up serving fifteen to life over a total narcissistic sociopath.  In the end I want to heal.

But that’s the shit kicker anyway.  Even in fantasy it’s all a moot point.   One can not exact revenge upon a narc sociopath.

My spirit is broken, he has given me immense suffering time and time again.  Thoughts of revenge bring me no solace, for revenge requires that person to have emotions.  In my particular case I don’t think this applies.  My ex just doesn’t possess emotions.  He wanders through life using women (people really) and discarding them as he sees fit.  For he does not have a conscience.  This lack of conscience is the hallmark of a true sociopath, that coupled with an appeal to one’s pity.  Seems as though some are born without one.

“Conscience is the window of our spirit, evil is the curtain.”

—-Doug Horton

~*~    ~*~    ~*~

Kubler Ross speaks of five phases of Loss and/or Grief.  These do not follow a linear path by any means.  One can weave in and out of them many times over.  One may start in anger, then move to depression, then back to denial and so forth:

1.  Denial

2.  Anger

3.  Bargaining

4.  Depression

5.   Acceptance

It would seem that I find myself at present, smack in the middle of the anger phase with the loss of this nearly 4 year relationship.  I am VERY angry about all the shit he has done to me and I am even MORE angry at myself that I allowed him to do this shit to me and didn’t have the health to shove him to tim-buck-two and send him back to hell from whence he came.

Knowing that wherever he is, he’s as happy as a pig in shit, makes me cringe even more.  While I, the one with a conscience and soul suffer.  There is no switch, where I can compartmentalize and shut my emotions off and go on my merry way.  Wouldn’t that be fucking great.  Wouldn’t it be nice to walk through life like him, only mimicking human emotion?  An actor playing the part of a human being for a day, an hour or two? and then returning to a hedonistic pleasure spree unaffected by guilt or remorse.

I’m not sure.  Because he will also never know other emotions as well.   He will never know the beauty of joy, love, warmth, or wanting to stare into a lovers eyes captivated by their very soul.  For he is an empty vessel.  Vacuous.  Vapid.  Vacant.   Through and through.

I don’t like how I feel today.

And I do feel shame when I say, that I wish for at least one day he would know and bear the pain that I feel.

x – y = fuck you

Too bad some techno-savvy guy like Steve Jobs (God rest his soul) or Bill Gates couldn’t have devised a return-to-sender button for e-mail that would be the snail mail equivalent, to when you want to send a clear message, to a sender of a piece of cyber mail that you don’t want their fucking mail AND you never read it.

The best we have today in cyberspace is  filter to trash, or a filter to spam.  All that does is just chuck it.  But that still lets the sender have the fantasy that you might have read it and then chucked it.  Doesn’t send the clear message “Piss off, I didn’t read your shit”

Yeah, you guessed right.  Even though I changed my phone numbers because of the filthy message he left on my answering machine.   He sent me an email.    I’m guessing he must have called, got the message that goes “doo doo doo, we’re sorry, the number you’ve reached is no longer in service.”  All he has left is my email as a means of contact.  But because of all his hate and venom who’d a thunk he’d want to contact me? HE DUMPED ME FOR FUCKS SAKE.

And you know what’s fucked up?

In contrast to the nasty venomous voice message, of the couple he had just fucked in some seedy motel, he also told me that he wouldn’t talk to me even if it I was dying on my deathbed;  THIS email titled,

“I’m sorry”

it went on….

Dear Lexi,

I’m sorry that things have been so harsh over the past few days my best friend.

 (his first name)
Talk about a MIND FUCK.
One minute he is an absolute asshole.   Then the next minute he is reminding me I am his best friend.  So I dial up a recovery partner, the person I feel most comfortable talking with b/c her background closely resembles my own and she says, “A best friend wouldn’t treat you like that would they.”   She intuitively knew that my brain started thinking things like ‘what if…….what if he really does miss me……or what if he really has feelings of caring.”   So I know to get my ass Straight  so I don’t lose the one day of no-contact  I have pieced together one painstaking hour at time.
It feels fucked up.  It’s this push-pull.   I hate you, don’t leave!  Or get the fuck out! where do you think you’re going?  I don’t want you anymore you disgust me, you’re my best friend.
It makes me question my sanity.  Which do I believe? Gaslighting bullshit!!!
This kind of dynamic I have lived for three and a half years.  At first it was much more subtle and infrequent.  Not nearly as flagrant.  Not so obvious.  Smaller insults that could barely be perceived as insults.  Then it became more and more pronounced but by that time, I was hooked in.  Desperate because of my need for love and my lack of self-esteem to seek out his validation, I clung to him harder.  Then he instinctively upped the ante.  He became more brazen, took more liberties.   Gave less and less affection, treating me worse and worse and til finally he knew the exact formula.   The exact amount of sadism I could tolerate without “breaking” (suiciding) and keep me bound to him.
But there’s one thing he never anticipated in his neat little fucking equation.   The unknown variable.
x= I wanted to get well.
Fuck you mother fucker.  Sit and spin,  I never responded to his email.  Best friends DON’T treat each other than way.   I didn’t respond to his email.

Stepping off the merry-go-round

He dumped me nearly 2 months ago, but I have kept crawling back like the pitiful addict that I am.  I truly do hate myself for it too.  The sickest part is that he knows it.  He knows that I’m addicted to him and keeps the whole cycle going.  He knows all my triggers, knows where my strings are and how to pull them.   Whenever I have tried to leave, he does his best to prevent it.  Not necessarily because there is some undying love for me, rich with texture and depth as I would wish and fantasize there’d be; but perhaps because part of his disease is having someone need him.  Also, him wanting the ability to have someone around that he can kick away so that he can maintain his position of power.  If he has no one to kick there’s no fun, no one to punish, no one to make fun of, no one to torment, no one to manipulate,  no one to “play with.”

Yesterday, I  am not sure what it was but something snapped inside me.  The pain of getting rejected over and over began to outweigh the tiny intermittent crumbs he throws. (At this point the crumbs are not even remotely affection related) Or was it him sending me photos of his latest sexual acquisition complete with lurid details of what he was going to do with these girls, yes two of them!  Cane their asses til they bleed and wrap Saran Wrap over their nose and mouth( asphyxia play).  The more edgy shit he’s into.  I felt nauseated and cried buckets having to stare at the images of the actual women he’s doing.

He claimed it did this only to illustrate where his disease has taken him but I don’t buy it.  He could have done that with words, a global explanation using intonation and inflection for emphasis.   I believe he did it to hurt me.   and it did.

So I phoned him and told him that this is it.   I can’t do this anymore.   I told him that while I realise for many years I have come back like a boomerang, that I too have limits with tolerating emotional pain and that I have reached my limit.   I told him that other women he has dumped in his life, including his ex-wife, walked away with their head held high and self-respect intact.  That I am the only one to come back and grovel like this.   I told him today is the day I get my self-respect back, my dignity back.   Today is the day I accept your dumping me and walk away with my head held high and move on.   My liberation.

I told him he will not hear from me after this whether he believes this or not and will go to any length to heal.  That today is the day I bury his memory and begin to grieve him.  Then, he asked me “will you send me the framed photo of you, the one that was on my desk?” and before he finished I thought of those women he’s about to fuck and cane til they bleed;  so I hung up the phone.   He can sit and spin.

True to form I wake up today and receive this email in my inbox from him which he apparently sent last night:

Today I lost an angel, my best friend, my future wife, a catch of a life
time, the woman that hung in there for me, my girl that used to call me Daddy,
my blood brother, and the mother of my future step-son.

I lost it all because of my fears and anger.  I am a man who has been suffering deep
inside, and is spiritually bankrupt. I am lost and running.  The last memory
that I have of you is “click.”

I did not know how to care for you. 
Now you are gone.  Heal well Lexi…..

I feel like a fish on a hook and there’s juicy bait always thrown my way.  At first glance it seems like he cares, which is what makes me want to type something back.  Upon closer examination, I thought about it.   I realised what’s more likely, he doesn’t like that I left.  That I pulled the plug on his game.  That even though he dumped me, I walked away.  So the email comes to try to lure me back in, only so he can kick me away again.  It’s all about power and control with him.  Nothing about emotion,  feelings, or love.   So like a good healing love-addict fish, I have to learn to swim away from the hooks, the bait, and realise that some sadistic fisherman just wants to ensnare me into his net again.

My addiction remains that part of me, which wants to believe there might be truth in those words he typed, what if I reach out to him? what if it doesn’t have to end? what if? what if? what if? a thousand what if’s………second guessing my logic which perpetuates and fuels my addiction……..and that’s why I “keep coming back”

~God be with me~