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.

Hurt

I hurt myself today- to see if I still feel- I focus on the pain- the only thing that’s real- the needle tears a hole- the old familiar sting- try to kill it all away- but I remember everything- what have I become? my sweetest friend- everyone I know goes away in the end- and you could have it all- my empire of dirt-
I will let you down I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of thorns- upon my liar’s chair- full of broken thoughts- I cannot repair- beneath the stains of time- the feelings disappear- you are someone else- I am still right here-
what have I become? my sweetest friend- everyone I know goes away- in the end- and you could have it all- my empire of dirt
I will let you down- I will make you hurt
if I could start again- a million miles away- I would keep myself- I would find a way.

Johnny Cash- Hurt  

I hurt myself today.

again…..

not by the Man in Black’s needle.

a different means;

the pain is no different, no less destructive.

Everyone I care about seems to go away in the end.

I hurt myself, again……

1970 something

Going to my elementary school, there were about thirty kids in my class.  Hell, my graduating high school class there were 562 of us.  Recess was always fun.  Our playground was pretty nice because I lived in an affluent suburb.  It had what most nice school playgrounds in suburbia do.  Plenty of swing sets, slides, see-saws. Box-ball and hop-scotch were even painted right on the hot top itself.

*
I became friends with Jimmy in second grade.  We were in Mrs. Drapeau’s class.  There was a few unforgettable things that happened that year.  Like the time that Henry Altenwen puked and peed his pants at the same time in the front of the class.  The time that Eric Frobert puked all over his reading book.  And the time that Mrs. Drapeau yelled at me in front of everyone for helping a classmate pronounce a word when they were struggling, during oral reading.  Asked me if I thought I should teach the class.  I remember feeling my face felt hot and I felt ashamed. I was only trying to help him, my heart was kind.  It’s amazing the influence that teachers can have in shaping children.

*
Jimmy and I stood next to the teacher aid at recess you see.  I didn’t get much attention at home, my life there was a living hell that no one would ever find out about.  Jimmy? well he was physically sick.  I didn’t really know with what.  His shoulders were always raised up by his chin because he struggled to breathe.  So we both had different reasons for hanging out with the teacher aid at recess while all the other kids frolicked about on a beautiful sunny day.

*
Me being the little chatter box, and not really grasping at age 7 that Jimmy was so sick I treated him like anyone else.  I asked him all sorts of questions since he could not run or walk around much.  Why this, why that.  He laughed at my questions.  I told a lot of stories and a lot of jokes.  I asked if he was ever going to get braces.  I asked him all kinds of crazy shit.  (I used to ask my Catholic grandmother if I was reincarnated and maybe I were a rock in another life)

*
Jimmy and I went to St. Mary’s Church together as well.  So I am sure that I yapped about CCD too.  I liked our time together.  Me, Jimmy, and the teacher aide.

*
Jimmy had been out from school for a few weeks and one morning I came into school and the Mrs. Drapeau said that Jimmy wouldn’t be coming back.  That he was in heaven.

*
Her words hung in the air like a garrote, choking the love in my little heart.
*****
Jimmy as I would later learn had Cystic Fibrosis.  I spent a good deal of time in my teens doing the Stair Climb, an annual event during the early 1990’s at the Prudential Center in Boston to raise money for my favorite childhood friend that I lost to death.

*
Every year my dad would drive me to Boston and I would get people to sponsor me for each floor that I could walk up. I always made it to the top of it’s 52 floors. Course my legs felt like rubber when I got done. I have asthma, and  sometimes it was a struggle and I would get winded.  It would occur to me as I walked, how Jimmy struggled day after day. How winded he must have been.  That I get relief with an inhaler…. that he suffocated.  I cried as I climbed.

*
Since 1965, the term “65 Roses” has been used by children of all ages to describe their disease because it’s easier to pronounce.

*
*****
After Jimmy’s funeral, his mother sent me a card.  It read, “Thank you Lexi for being there for my son.  You were his only friend.”  Her words gripped me and I will never forget them. To this day I never realized that all the other kids, were frolicking around, never talked to him, never stopped to get to know him.  Strange, how because of the hell I lived and the horror of what happened in my house, God brought Jimmy and I together.
*****
2 weeks ago, I received a text from my mom which made me ecstatic! It read, “there is a new treatment for Cystic Fibrosis!”  So I ran over and googled it. Sure enough, there is.  It is a brand new FDA approved drug called  “Kalydeco.”

*
It reminded me of Jimmy and I smiled, then cried.  Some 35 years later, the love for my friend still lives in my heart.

*
~miss you Jimmy~ xoxox
…. … …

Revenge

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.

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.

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 !