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 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.

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.










Clowns scare me

The elephants smell bad.  The food makes me sick.  The port-o- potties always lean like the tower of Pisa and I fear they are going to fucking tip and fall whilst I am inside them.

I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.

‘Aint it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring fucking circus.

I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring.  Which includes my shrink and my 12 step peeps.

In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film TheWolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because my qualifier, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat.       As she yammers her ever so famous line,

“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is  bright.” 

Stupid gypsy, he came over on Valentines day you know.  Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t wearing the necklace and he got me.

Then in a third ring there’s this new crap emerging. A new guy.  We’ll call him B.   New, but not new really. Same old pattern.  addiction, is like that, it progresses and proliferates like a cancer, if untreated.  This this time oddly, I seem to playthe role of the love-avoidant.  Part of me feels smothered by his advances, part of me intoxicated by finally attracting a truly kind and decent man somehow (this truly escapes me as I have NO self-esteem).

BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.  The timing is especially wrong.  I need recovery! not someone to rescue me.  I”m not a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere.  (Even if I feel like I am)  My sponsor warns me, that  a 4 attracts a 4.  That if I am still broken, I cannot possibly be attracting a “together”person, however he is presenting.  Veneer is veneer.

Sweet Jesus.  This is scaring me.

My shrink is starting to scare me.  Well not her, but what is going on inside me….She matters to me.   I really like her.   I have gone through shrinks like Grant took Richmond.   Most of them don’t know their ass from their elbow.  This one, is bright, witty, funny as hell and knows her shit.   She is the first to find a way to ground me when I start “drifting”.    That speaks volumes alone about her ability in my mind.  No one of her predecessors even was aware I was drifting.  I am afraid she will leave, maybe her husband will get a job someplace. Maybe she’ll get hit by a bus or some shit.  Yanno, crazy irrational shit goes through my mind at night.  All that transference shit that is supposed to happen is happening.  And that’s a good thing I suppose.  Then I wonder if she likes me back or whether she dreads me coming into her office.  But I actually( amazingly even) told her all this shit.

When I get close to people, or shall I say, when they get too close to my heart I tend to run.  Run from safety.  I tend to sabotage things.  Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly.   I believe my shrink may be able to help me.  At other more pessimistic times, I feel beyond her help.  Either way I’m scared to death.  She invokes some pretty strong emotions in me, that go back into my childhood.  She has power over me and she doesn’t realise it.  Or maybe she does.   Thus far, people in positions of power have mistreated me.  So the knee-jerk reaction is to run like hell as fast as I can away.

I haven’t been going to 12 step meetings as much probably for the same reason.

I am so very frightened right now.  So I have returned to what is familiar.  Those old circus clowns.  They scare me, sure they can hurt me.  But they are a swamp I know well.  I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp.   But it’s a familiar swamp.   I know how it reacts, and how to react to it.  The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.


To seek wellness, wholeness is to embark upon uncharted territory?  It is to walk a tightrope ten-thousand feet up over a chasm with no safety-net below…..

Photo Opportunity

I contacted him.

It’s always follows the same fucking pattern.

It begins well.

Starts out civilised.

Moves into discord and tension building.

Old wounds flare up and more tension mounts.

He blows his stack, screams at me at the top of his lungs and calls me denigrating names and humiliates me,

I burst into tears.

He yells at me for crying then says he has to go because he has another fuck hook up to get to.

Which always leads to excruciating pain, and me feeling  emotionally kicked.


Everytime I think I have hit bottom,

there’s a new bottom.


I’d been introduced to friends of Bill W. at around age 19.  But never took to the program and left after only a few weeks.   At that time in my life, I was on Prozac for my first suicide attempt and benzodiazepines for anxiety attacks.  I was anorexic and binge drinking on pints of Peachtree Schnapps ’cause I didn’t really give a shit whether I died in my sleep or not, after they let me out of the psych hospital.  The people in the AA meetings were all in their 30’s and 40’s and talking about either prison, OUI’s, or their spouses divorcing them.  I wasn’t them.  I was a college kid that was just drinking to forget my past, numbing out trying to deaden pain.  We had nothing in common, or so I thought……..

The first joint I ever smoked was around 12.  My brother sold it to me for a dollar, cut-rate seeing it was in the family and all.  He used to grow in our backyard and rapid dry it in the microwave when our parents weren’t home.  My mother could never distinguish it from any of the other weeds growing behind the shed.  It got the right amount of sunlight and shade.

When my parents went away, we’d sit around the kitchen table all four of us siblings.  I was only about ten when that operation started.  I was donned “stem girl” as the name so implies.  The pile of pot then pushed my way to pick the stems out, then I passed it to my sister a year older than me “seed girl”, she’d push it over to my older brother who would place the right sized clump on the rolling paper and then he’d push it to my oldest brother who’d lick it into the finished blunt.   Then we’d hop into the back of his Chevy Nova and he’s spark it up.  Although I never smoked it, I certainly got a contact high from all the smoke and fumes.

Saw my first 8-ball at around ten as well.  White powder on a mirror with my brother’s friends with a 20 dollar bill up their nose.  I watched with morbid curiosity as he yelled for me to go back upstairs.   When my parents came home I told them what I saw.   It was completely innocent, not snitching as I truly didn’t know what to make of it.  He got sent to some juvenile rehab where we had to drive to visit him on Sundays and he had to earn points to come home for a visit.  When he finally did come home, in the dead of night where my muffled screams couldn’t be heard, I paid a very dear, dear price for opening my mouth.  And I didn’t know it then but I would continue to pay a price for years to come.

The one advantage of having older brothers was they could buy booze for me at the package store, which is what they did.  I could also buy a dime bag of weed at a cut-rate.  Which I did.  My high school years are a haze of black-outs and a two times of alcohol poisoning.   I could drink most of the football team under the table and for some reason I felt proud of that.  It was always important that I not be perceived as weak.  Maybe because my sister who was a year older and stronger than me, was throwing me up against the wall at home to intimidate me could kick my ass….  at least outside the house, I present myself as “tough”

My eating disorder got worse too.   The number on the scale began to dictate my self-worth.  So starvation and over-exercising became a way of life.  I had a morbid fear of purging so I could never become bulimic.  By the time of my hospitalization, I had lost 15% of my body weight and was beginning to hallucinate.  My thoughts were becoming distorted.  My brain itself,  deprived of glucose and key nutrients, began to improperly function.   Subsisting off of 500 calories a day for nearly a year fucks with your brain.

Eating disorder, Alcoholism, substance abuse, smoking cigarettes? I was a 2 pack a day-er.

This is important to mention because it took years for me to understand that alcohol, drug use, and eating disorder(s) were all secondary addictions.  The primary addiction that was not being addressed was codependency.

I was in constant pain, feeling alone and hurting. To cope with that pain, I began using all sorts of other secondary things to self-medicate.

Come to think of it…..I have  gone my entire life, not knowing how to sit with painful emotions without over-eating/starving, self-mutilating, taking drugs, getting drunk, masturbating, compulsively spending, compulsively cleaning, cruising personal ads, or my personal drug of choice using relationship with men as a “salve”.

I still have all these other addictions going on.  They are all quite still real and tugging at me sometimes whispering, sometimes yelling at me.  On any given day I am struggling with wanting to drink myself into a stupor because the ex doesn’t call me and I miss him so much it hurts.  Or I might want to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s to numb out the pain.   Or maybe I watch some porn on the internet and then go masturbate, or maybe pop some percocet.  ANYTHING not to feel that gut wrenching pain of rejection that feels like I am dying from the inside out.

Sometimes I get angry that some people in the meetings have one addiction and that’s all they have to contend with.  Jealous.  How fucking petty of me, that I sit there and wish that’s all I had to contend with.  Then I hate myself for being an angry piece of shit.   I am so not right-sized.  Then I know that sitting on a pity-pot isn’t going to get me anywhere in recovery.  And I DO know that somewhere out there, there’s someone who has it wayyyyyy worse than I do.  So I better shut the fuck up and listen.  Pray for humility and listen.  And on good days, I do.

I do belong to several 12-step groups and I go to a shit load of meetings every week.  I feel like I am dancing as fast as I can.  Some weeks, it feels draining.  Like a game of whack-a-mole.  Just when you get one addiction in remission, another one pops back up to rear its ugly head.  And some days I don’t even want to get out of fucking bed.   Sometimes I feel like I will never get better.   I am feeling hopeless today.   I am sitting with a lot of fear today too.

The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous even says, (pg 58 4th edition) “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path.  Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves.  There are such unfortunates.   They are not at fault;  They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.  Their chances are less than average.  There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.”

I have the capacity for rigorous honesty.  But what if I am too damaged emotionally, too fucked up from my childhood?  what if I am one of those Bill W. spoke of? one of those unfortunates?

fuck me, I hope not.

The doll scares me

Went to my shrink this morning and she told me that it’s my inner child that ‘s the addict.  The broken fractured part of me that’s looking out love.  I nodded in agreement.  She told me she thought one way I could nurture this part of myself and not looking for my ex Dominant who floats in and out of my life between his red-light district activities to fill that need, would be to buy a baby-doll.

My jaw dropped.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Well, she went on, “if you could get yourself a baby-doll and hold the doll everyday, and give it some love and nurturing, maybe this would be a concrete way you could nurture the younger part of you….the younger piece of Lexi,  the little girl living in you, who still seeking out love so desperately.  I had another client and this worked for well her.”

I stared blankly trying to hide the huge amount of uncomfortable-ness it was triggering.  I do that…. I don’t know why I still reflexively hide my emotions.

“Oh, like hold this dolly in lieu of……. sitting on Daddy’s lap while he slides his cock up my ass and tells me I’m his good girl, ya mean?”




“I……I……..I……..I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Of course privately I was thinking FUCK NO!  There’s no fucking way I’m sitting in a room with a fucking doll and calling it my name, and hugging it and shit, that’s totally FUBAR!  That reminds me too much of some Kumbaya,  artsy-craftsy-let’s-all-hold-hands-and-fart-rainbows therapy group they force you to attend, when I got locked up after my first suicide attempt.  It didn’t help then and it’s probably not going to help now.

I have only gone to about ten 12 step meetings, read their book cover to cover over a fortnight, finally “get” that I am a sick cookie and now this?  I’m supposed to sit down with a fucking doll and talk to it like it’s me?  This is wayyyyyyyy too much to take in.   I feel overwhelmed.  I think I’d rather be spanked, flogged, whipped, caned, cropped and pissed on IN THAT ORDER than to sit with a doll and call it my name and hug it and shit.  And that must say something for my level of dis-ease.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, after trying to white-knuckle my way through no contact (NC) with my ex-Dom because he dumped me for NSA sex with anything with a heartbeat, I “slipped” and ended up in his bed again begging him to” love me back” last weekend, which of course made me  feel totally humiliated and degraded.    Last night he ended up screaming at me at the top of his lungs, because I asked a question he didn’t want to answer.  Told me I don’t respect him enough and threatening to never speak to me again if I don’t (fill in whatever action he wants).

When will I hit a bottom?

What if there isn’t a fucking bottom?

What if bottom is death?

The doll scares me.

I scare me.

Not getting well scares me the most.