Tag Archives: depression

I’m Living in the Upside Down

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Somehow with all my best laid defenses and a psych degree in hand,  another narcissist was able to work his magic and pique my clinical interest, to engage me in conversation.

It all began 2 years ago when I was on an online support webpage at the bottom of a deep dark depression hoping to crawl out.

Narcissist Personality Disorder is of great clinical interest to me as is other Cluster B personality disorders.

So it all started out rather benign-ish. Said Narc finds me online and poses as a woman to befriend me.  Why I was targeted I will never know.  He explains that he was using a business account, hence the woman profile, which never held any water.  This narc can’t think quickly on his feet.   I ask why he was really on the support page.  He said his wife was trying to kill him and he was there to receive support for her abuse…. more bullshit.  Eventually I call him out on all of it, realizing I have a narc on my hands.   He said he wanted my help.  If it was true, which I had serious doubts,  I was happy to oblige.   If the truth was any stranger it would be fiction.

It didn’t take long for his true intentions to be revealed.  That he wanted to talk dirty, gloating that he can get any woman to swoon.  But I told him with my recent separation and depression,  I was the bell jar.  I wasn’t going to swoon over anything but a funeral pyre.

Over time he wants me to know two very important things about him:   He has a big cock and a big wallet.

Online you can be anyone you want to be.   He could be living in his parents basement with his pet iguana making women squeal for all I know while momma is upstairs cookin’ up some bacon.   STRANGER THINGS have happened.

The difference is that I know he was a narcissist and I did from day one.   I’m a tertiary supply for him.  He comes around when his primary and secondary sources are scant.   Odd hours.   Odd texts which go nowhere.    A strange meme here, an odd web link there.    The whole thing is odd.   It finally dawned on me that’s it.   It’s a dead end.  It’s a mind fuck.  He always leads the conversations back to him and his magnificent cock.  Which by the way I’ve never seen (nor do I want to) just saying.  Right now it’s pure folklore that his cock is the Sasquatch of schlong’s.

I wonder why the hell I keep replying to this fool.  He ghosts me for weeks or months at a time then he flits in like a moth lighting for a moment under my lamp, to say that if I was in his presence I wouldn’t be able to resist him.

Oh joy,  oh rapture, unforeseen.

I had let him know my mom had died. It’s always a bad idea to disclose any personal information.   I was so depressed for the month and a half afterwards that I couldn’t function at all.  I hadn’t responded to anyone’s text messages save for my sister, for a few weeks.   This obviously had upset him, as he texted, “how is you Mom doing ?”

He’s so cold.   Interacting with him is making my self-esteem worse, my depression worse.   I told him recently that I had suicidal thoughts of jumping off a bridge.  Haven’t had anything like this I’m years.   I am beginning to believe he wants me dead.

I always end up feel so degraded.   I have no one to blame but myself.    I went in to this eyes wide open.  I just can’t understand why I’ve let this shit happen.  He uses me like an emotional piece of toilet paper to wipe his ass, save for the fact he has no emotions.   Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.   Usually I have a fair amount of insight, but I cannot seem to figure out why I’m in this mess.

Please, anyone want to take a crack???

 

 

 


Obsession

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You slither around the folds in my cerebellum

in a cyclical motion

unceasingly,

unrelentingly,

squeezing and constricting

rational thought.

*****

Eventually you attach yourself into my thoughts,

you become one with me.

I cannot separate myself from you.

I am you, you are me.

Without you, I cannot breathe.

*****

I lose myself in fantasy…..

What if, maybe, what could be, if only.

You are both my pleasure and my pain.

A strange dichotomy.

I rarely fight you anymore these days.

What if obsession gives way to possession.


Drawn to Illicit Sex

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World English Dictionary
illicit (ɪˈlɪsɪt)

— adj
1. another word for illegal
2. not approved by common custom, rule, or standard: illicit sexual relations
For the purposes of this post I am using the latter definition.

The sexual abuse I had endured as a child left me so terrified of my own sexuality and of men that it left me completely disconnected with and at times dissociated from my body.  When I finally ended up dating it was nearly all abusive men, active substance using men, and narcissistic men. It seemed strange that over and over it was the wrong guys. Bad luck I thought.

Why couldn’t I have been the girl who got asked out by some nice fellow and progressed in a slow and steady fashion within a relationship?   I’ll tell you why because I was a victim of incest at the hands of my brother and it had been going on since I was 8 and it didn’t end until I was in the middle of high school. And by then I wanted to commit suicide.

So when I grew up, I had become THAT girl. You know the one that tells my date my entire life story over a few drinks in under ten minutes and then let’s him finger fuck me underneath the table at the restaurant, while telling him as he is doing this, that I want to take things slow.

Or I have a guy friend who says he’s hoping my recovery moves more quickly because he’d like to fuck me. After a tongue lashing from me, on how I value our friendship, and that we’ve been friends for so long and he can’t do this! I climb right up on his lap, straddle him, kiss him, gently bite his nipples, rhythmically move my hips over his pelvis while my body betrays me as I get wet under my skirt all over his jeans.

Oh wait, here comes the shame again, along with guilt. Why couldn’t I have just tongue lashed him and left it there? What’s wrong with me.

After restaurant guy finger fucked me, I hid in my apartment for weeks every time he rang my buzzer. So much shame. Eventually he didn’t come around anymore, Thank God. When you couple shame and guilt, this wedding along with a lack of ability to dialogue about your emotions… You spend your life either running or hiding. Building thicker walls to keep people out so you don’t get hurt again.

My shrink says lots of incest survivors  are at higher risk for developing sexual problems and problems with setting adequate boundaries overall.  When your body is not your own as a child, because your brother has access to you 24/7 you don’t ever have a “no,” to his sexual advances. You can never escape.

As an adult it was quite an easy transition for me to slide into the world of BDSM, fetish, and kink .

I was too busy figuring out how to stay alive amidst trauma in childhood and adolescence and I never learned the healthy boundaries needed to navigate adulthood. So the cycle repeated.

I’m a walking talking paradox. I really DO want to be the girl who goes slow and have healthy boundaries AND also, I don’t. I crave that which is taboo, and sometimes I recoil from that which is taboo.

I think back to Stanley Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange. If I’m wired to respond sexually in a maladaptive and deviant way for so long, what are the odds I can re-wire now? There is a saying that once a cucumber has become a pickle, it can never go back to being a cucumber again.

What if I am that pickle?

What if there is hope for all of us for redemption?


Toxic Shame

0E6185B6-ADF6-490A-9675-B1E2F5FD549EComplex trauma has left a wound on me that I don’t know will ever heal.  Or maybe it’s that there’s so much scar tissue I just need to get used to that “new normal” of who I’ve  become.

Complex trauma is still a relatively new field of psychology. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder.  (C-PTSD) results from enduring complex trauma.

Complex trauma is ongoing or repeated interpersonal trauma, where the victim is traumatized in captivity, and where there is no perceived way to escape. Ongoing child abuse is captivity abuse because the child cannot escape. Domestic violence is another example. Forced prostitution/sex trafficking is another.

In my particular case, I was a victim of childhood incest.  It is the hardest thing to type that sentence, harder still to say it out loud.  I want to delete the sentence and delete “it” from my history.  Additionally, there was heavy-handed corporal punishment which by today’s standards would be considered physical abuse.   There was definite emotional abuse and at times neglect.  Continual domestic violence pervaded my childhood home.  My home did not often feel like the safe place it should.

Later in adulthood, I was the victim of domestic violence within my two major long-terms relationships.   I don’t know that I even recognized it happening as such it seemed so familiar.  If that makes sense.

All of my life I have struggled with low self-esteem.   Underneath my low self-esteem  belies a  darker feeling .   There is this deep sense of shame I have carried since as long as I can remember.

Unlike ordinary shame, “internalized shame” lingers and changes our self-image. It’s shame that has become “toxic.

When a person is ruled by toxic shame it interferes with their ability to accept positive regard.   For in childhood they internalized the belief of not being worthy of being loved or given any attention.

It dawned on me today as I couldn’t look into the mirror, that I just hate myself because I’m ashamed of me.

I wonder if this shame will ever leave.  I’ve got a new shrink I’ve been seeing for about 9 months.   I’ll call her Lee.  One can’t help but feel disillusioned after 20 years in/out of therapy.   I’ve ditched seeing Lee the past month.  Made up some excuse or other.  I mean everyone needs a mental health day from the mental health provider.   Oh wait this can’t be treatment resistance this soon can it?  I am feeling vulnerable because we are past the point of rapport building, and she’s a quick study.  She sees through my best defense mechanisms, and is trying to dig deeper and I’m running like hell.

There’s no shame in investing in a sturdy paper bag to wear over my head to hide myself, right?  Wearing bags are so much easier than facing your own demons.  ‘Cause Lord knows I’m hoping for a loophole.

 

.

 


Rorschach Test

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What do you see in the ink blot?

The Rorschach test is a projective psychological test in which subjects’ perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation.

I remember when the test was given to me at 19.   I was in the psych hospital for a suicide attempt.  I felt hopeless and empty  had been for a long time.

At first, I thought about screwing with the tester, albeit briefly, then changed my mind because I was suffering immensely.

He informed me,”I am going to hold up a card and you will just tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”

Sure.

card goes up with black ink image only

“Ink blot.

Okay, I forgot to mention that you can say anything except for inkblot.”

Flashes card

bat

card

butterfly

card

“butterfly with goat head

card

“weird looking bug with skull face

card

Moth with fangs

card w/ black + red ink image

death

2nd card black/red

death

3rd card  black/red

death

multi-colored card

“well of you want me to look at it as a whole, I see a giant head, but within the upper right corner there is a a goat head with horns, over here in the bottom left there is this sort of devil creature, at the very top I see a baby’s face.”

Tester takes copious notes while I speak then packs up his cards. Day or so later,  I get slapped on Prozac and diagnosed with depression.   Wasn’t that apparent from the suicide attempt?  I’m kind of glad I didn’t screw with the tester.  I could have ended up on massive amounts of Thorazine drooling and shuffling around like the other  blokes aimlessly wandering about that smelled of piss and cigarettes.

My roommate’s depression was so severe that it didn’t respond to medication so they had to strap her down and take her to the basement for ECT aka Shock therapy.  I think she had bilateral (both sides of her brain) zapped to induce the seizure.   She came back looking like Sigourney Weaver had sucked her brain out with a straw and there was nothing left.  She had that 1000 yard stare, empty eyes that penetrate straight through you.

She never did remember me for a few days after she got cooked, despite having known me for nearly a month.  I was always jealous though because ECT patients got to have coffee and Dunkin Donuts after the switch was thrown.

So if you eat your donut and drink your coffee and enjoy it  but don’t remember you do, did it really count?     It’s almost like they never got their coffee and donuts.

What do I see in the blot doctor?  Big Pharma profiting from human suffering.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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?

Nothing

Did you have anything to do with these?”

Silence

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 VI

At some point I thought I would try and get into his mind to see what sort of pathology (or not) may exist. I held a college degree in Psychology and had worked in the field for several years.  Beyond the obvious of his sexual sadism, and catching in numerous lies, his words and actions weren’t shoring up. Ever. I felt crazy all the time but my gut told me something deeper was wrong.   I needed proof that I wasn’t crazy, that there was something there underneath his mostly charming personality.

I knew I would be unable to be objective. However, I believed I would be able to keep a good “veneer” on not showing my shock if he divulged something that upset me. I also knew that if he got the first hint that I was off put by his disclosures, he would not only shut down but that he would also retaliate against me.

Risky for me indeed, yet things were not adding up and I wanted answers. I felt this sort of going “under cover” with him was the only way I would get my answers. Unless you a person with a burning sense of inquisitiveness, where you are almost “driven” to be analytical? None of the reasons I needed to know, will ever make sense to you. Don’t try to understand. Because by this point dear reader if you can’t understand why I needed answers, you have probably already written me off in the “crazy she should have just left” bin long ago.

I began probing his sexual fantasies fully expecting to hear more tales of sadism. I lied to gain his trust that I too, had a few sadistic fantasies but had repressed mine. Mine however were not sexual. They centered around retaliatory themes about bullying done to me in high school and by the abuse I had endured as a small child.

It worked.

He began trusting me and opening up. I never imagined what he was to say.

He envisioned enticing a young 17-18 year old female student into his van. My first question, “how would you get her in?

He answered, “well that’s where you would come in. Teen girls are much more likely to come near a van when you are asking for directions if a woman is present and asking.”

I let out a sigh…..

“So, I would need you to help me lure her near the van.” He quipped.

Okay” I listened.

Then I would run around and grab her and put the chloroform napkin over her mouth and you would help me shove her into my van, then we drive off.”

I’m quite certain I had to take great effort to mask the absolute horror as it was coursing through me as I was listening to him say the word chloroform. My heart was racing. I felt sweat pooling everywhere. I knew if I bailed now I would never know who was in front of me, nor how much danger I was in. I pressed on.

Okay, so what would we do with her once we have her in the van?”

“Well the van would be soundproof and she’d be chained to the floor by bolts on her legs and I’d bind her arms making her easier to control later. I wouldn’t take any chances.” he explained

“Right, not after all that trouble.” I said.

“Then we’d take her back to my torture chamber. I haven’t built it yet. But I can tell you it would be awesome, state of the art. All stainless steel. Drainage grate in the floors that bodily fluids could be washed down. . All kinds of hooks overhead to hang implements. Large stainless steel hospital bed. You get the idea. This way you can bleach and clean everything so there’s no trace of anything. Soundproof. “

He was so excited talking about it all. It was chilling.

“So what would you do with her first?” I asked.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!! Other that the obvious of taking her several different ways?”

“Yeah right.”

“I’d pull her nipples off with a pair of needle nose pliers.”

Once again I struggled to maintain composure and made sure not to wait too long without commenting I didn’t want him to think I was faking being into his sick fantasy. The best I could muster was to reality check him.

“If you did that, she would likely go into shock and wouldn’t be alive much longer after that.”

He chuckled, “Smart. I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

He spoke about various torture methods too gruesome to speak of here. I can say that it involved torturing the girl til she passed out, waking her up with ammonia and other means and then repeating this until she died.  Then disposing of her body in plastic bags in a river.  This was a turning point for me.

This was far beyond the scope of anything I had ever personally encountered. Only the sort of thing one reads in text books or watches on shows like Forensic Files, where the girlfriend/wife/victim ends up dead.


Mother fucker

I am so fucking triggered tonight.

It is Thanksgiving Eve and I am is obsessed about him.

Where is he?  Who might he be with?  Is he out doing someone off Craigslist or is he

starting over with the new younger version of “Lexi” already.   Complete with 5 hour phone conversations

like he used to do with me that lasted til we both fell asleep til 5 am.

……oh Jesus Mary and Joseph….help me.

his heart is already dead, and mine……keeps right on beating.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

In AA they have Al-ka-thons.

Don’t they have obsess-athons for me so I don’t think about him all night? It’s the mother fucking Holidays for fucks sake.

Everywhere you look people are holding hands and kissing and public displays of affection abound.

It feels like life is dousing vinegar into my gaping wound.  My heart is breaking into a million shards of glass.

Mother fucking fuck.

I HATE THIS SHIT !


Hurry up with the lobotomy already

I don’t know what’s up with me today.  I’m pumping gas and some guy is staring at me.  At first I assume I must have something on my shirt.  When I look down and realize that I don’t, I start feeling even more nervous.   I want to run and hide and wonder why I didn’t just find a frigin gas station that had no one pumping at it.  Some remote desolate gas station with tumble weed blowing through, like the kind you see on old TV westerns with John Wayne.  Except that’s ridiculous, because tumble weed isn’t indigenous to Massachusetts.

Then I get to the grocery store and I’m picking out a head of lettuce.  Red leaf and romaine are both $2.49, so I stand there paralyzed like a deer in headlights.  Apparently this woman notices this and in an almost chastising way says to me, “it’s not going to jump off the shelf you know.”  But that’s just it.  I can’t make a fucking snap decision between Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice or Minute Maid.

Later, I walk to the post office to mail some seriously over-due bills, and I feel this pain in my left lung.  It comes and goes, every few months.   But because I used to chain smoke I have myself convinced that I’m a sneeze away from terminal small cell carcinoma.  I start actually wondering who would come to my funeral, my wake, screwed up shit like that.  In under a minute, my catastrophic thinking has me dead and buried.  All from a pain in my lung…..Who fucking thinks like this?

Maybe…….just maybe……… this has something to do with seeing my ex  yesterday.

He’s the ex-boyfriend, Daddy Dominant, sorry….. the sexual sadist. The man I’ve gone back to a thousand times after he’s treated me less than dog shit.   As we stood there in a parking lot to exchange an important document, he told me in a voice void of any emotion, that he was heading out to fuck a 27-year-old at a local motel and didn’t have long.  He is 52.  He doesn’t even know her first name and will never see her after today, but he will “use her til she’s raw.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes and I felt like I was going to puke when he said that.   He went on callously, “I’m sorry, but right now, sex with strangers is my number one priority.  Maybe someday I’ll want to stop, now I don’t.  I won’t ever forget you….you’ll always be my girl.  I think it’s best not to call me anymore, for your own good.”

His words hung in the air like a garrote, suffocating the last bit of air between us.  And as I sobbed, he approached me and stiffly put his arms around me for what seemed like a long time, except that I didn’t feel any emotions coming from him.  It felt almost obligatory, staged, a mere perfunctory task that  he must execute before moving to his next destination.

I can cook a mean lasagna.

I can give great head.

I can speak in several fake foreign accents and make everyone in the room laugh their ass off while doing them.

As a trained mental health counselor, I can de-escalate psychotic, suicidal, severely agitated, anxious patients in a locked ward.

I can read books to small children with enough enthusiasm to have special requests for” just one more”.

But for the life of me, I can’t love myself enough to walk away from him…..


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