Of Mice and Monsters VIII

The relationship had degraded so much and yet I did not know to extricate from it. Fear was a large factor keeping me in it, but also as hard as it is to understand for those who have never been involved with a pathological, I still had a faint hope that he would somehow return to the man I had initially met. The nice, sweet, charming, caring person who was attentive to me and hung on my every word. However, that man whom I fell in love with had fallen away. He was replaced with an empty, selfish, highly sadistic man who ignored my boundaries, was prone to give me silent treatments on a whim for reasons I was told to “figure out.” Every once in awhile that old nice version of him would return leading me to believe it was me that was the problem.  This “intermittent reinforcement” I would later find out, was done deliberately to keep me hooked in the relationship.  At times he even said to me that if I could just stop the (insert bad perceived behavior by him) or begin (insert a desired behavior which he had yet to see from me) than perhaps things could be the way they once were between us. Deep down though, I had a gut feeling he never had any intention of making good with the follow through.

Giving false hope is the devil’s work.

At some point I believe I had chalked up 12 bacterial vaginosis infections in the course of 5 years with him. Prior to knowing him I had never even had one my entire life. My gynecologist said they were sexually indicated but they could be acquired by other means such as swimming in ponds, douching, using tampons and not changing them often enough. Yet none of those applied to me. She made it clear it was not something one could get from a toilet seat. How did I get these infections? I couldn’t help thinking he must be having an affair.  My heart was sad thinking why wasn’t I ever good enough?

There were the middle of the night wake-ups where I’d find him gone out of bed. Only to find him using his phone in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat checking his voicemail because he couldn’t sleep or so he said.  When questioned about it he would always deflect the question and blame me with an accusatory tone,” how dare you try and control what I do when I am having trouble sleeping!!!” Or that he was booking a doctors appointment. WTF? Are you kidding me.  You are booking a well visit with your primary care physician at 3:30 am?

There were lies.

That he was snow blowing for hours during the winter and couldn’t answer the phone , yet when I arrived I touched the snowblower and the entire machine was totally cold.  He never knew I did this.

Lies about going to his regular AA meeting but when I’d ask what the topic was, who chaired the meeting, or who the speaker was, he said he couldn’t remember. Anyone who is in recovery knows this is total BS unless you are drunk going to the meeting.   He was 26 years sober.

There were so many lies, so many inconsistencies, so many scary things that I had been fervently praying. Begging God to please remove him from my life. To please keep me safe and release me from this man. Day and night I prayed. Because for reasons unknown to me at the time, I could not seem to muster leaving him of my own free will.  Each time that I tried my heart would be overcome with a  sorrow so deep and painful, that I would do anything to avoid that level and degree of pain; including not leaving him.

Then my prayers were answered.

I was on his computer and had noticed a photo that hadn’t been there the week prior.  It was a photo of a naked woman lying on a table, with him wearing a green shirt on with his hand outstretched touching her genitals.

I asked him about it.  He claimed it was from years ago.   I knew it was a lie.   So I said, “All photos have time-stamps, right click on the image and show me it was years ago.”

He replied, “You don’t control me I’m not going to do that.”

I said,” this has nothing to do with control, if you can prove that this was done years ago just go ahead and right click on it and prove me that I’m wrong.”

He said, “get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Get your all your things together and get out , we are done, it’s over Lexi.

I told him, “I’ll be happy to get out if you want to be done , but just the same I want you to show me that the photo was from years ago, prove that I am wrong.”

“Just get out.”

My lip began to quiver and tears began to fall down my face as I begged him,”Please tell me the truth about that photo, I’ve been good this you for 5 years,  I loved you and I don’t deserve lies, please just tell me the truth.”!”

You want the truth?” He said.

Yes,” I whimpered.

“That photo was from when I went to a gang-bang the first year I was with you…….I am a sex addict.  I have gone on Craigslist hookups, done a fair share of swinging,  paid for prostitutes, and have a steady pool of friends with benefits that I have sex with, some that go back for many years,”  he said cooly.

I was shocked, replulsed, and terrified all at the same time.   They sat when you die your life flashes before you at rapid speed.   Well it was like that.  I kept thinking of all the sexual partners he had been with.  How many had there been?  Had I been infected with HIV and didn’t even know it?  My heart skipped a beat and my blood ran cold.

Before I could say anything he said,” you need to leave now Lexi, are you happy you got your truth?”

I carried my things to my car.   The cross on his kitchen wall for reasons unknown, slid upside down on the wall and inverted.  It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

As I walked out the door I felt mostly  numb as the tears had already dried on my face.  My thoughts still raced a mile a minute, though mostly consumed with one persistent thought, ‘how could I have been deceived by a man without a conscience.’

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.

The Stepford Addict

I don’t fit in anywhere.  I never have.  I will be anything you need me to.  But none of its real.  I do whatever it takes, act however you need me to, just as long as you like might like me…

I’ve lived in this God-forsaken shit town for 3 years and I haven’t made one friend.  I’m not looking for your pity or sympathy either.  This blog isn’t about that.  I’ve got my pillow to cry into and a therapist who hears me bitch enough about being a loner.   I am a loner, but it’s not by choice.

I just don’t fit into this cookie-cutter community.  Apparently I don’t know the secret fucking handshake in this one horse town.  Most women here are trust fund girls who went to Yale and probably have their silver spoons embedded up their snatch to prove their purebred status.  I’m the mongrel they secretly want to spit on, the girl of which a few of their husbands sometimes secretly steal furtive glances when they’re not looking.  Something about me makes these women uneasy, but I’m not sure why.  I’m college educated too, but I didn’t go to an Ivy-League school.  I had to get to a state school through work-study, scholarships, and financial aid.

But something about me threatens them, because they can’t even make eye contact with me when they’re away from the “pack” all by themselves.   You know, the clique they usually stand in?  The group of women that just like in high school, stand to the side and whisper in hushed tones as you pass by.   Most of them are approaching middle-age and have starved their way to being thin through daily yoga and pilates.  They walk around toting their children they adopted from a foreign country because they were way past menopause when they started their family and because it wasn’t working out having just dogs as surrogate children anymore.

Everything is sanitary, sterile, and healthful from clothing to food.   I don’t think any of their kids have ever tasted a cupcake with red dye #4 and high fructose corn syrup.  Hell no, they subsist off of organic soy and sunshine products that both look and tastes like cardboard.  But those kids won’t learn that until they get far enough away from mommy’s helicopter apron strings.

At the last PTO meeting I attended they were all clambering  who’d take home the compost pile from the Harvest garden at school.   I wanted to raise my hand and offer to take a shit in the compost bag just to see if anyone would notice I said anything.

When I walk by they don’t even acknowledge me.  As if I do not exist, like I am a non-entity, a non human being.  And in those moments, It makes me fantasize about being on my knees and sucking off one their husbands, purely out of spite.   But I wouldn’t.  I have morals and besides their husbands are just as narcissistic, arrogant, and filled with hubris as they are and equally creep me out.

And yet, I am still on the outside looking in.   Filled with a palpable sadness. A long-standing dolefulness that spans years.  The kind of penetrating sorrow which makes one turn a collar to that cold and damp, almost as if to shield oneself from its grip.

It’s like I’m seven years old again on the play-ground and some asshole kid won’t pick me for the team because I don’t have the “right” clothes.    It’s the same bullshit, just that those kids grew up and became adults.  Now they’re still the same pretentious elitist assholes just older….Same as it ever was.  And I, I still don’t have the teflon I need in life to let it all roll off.

Despite what people think, addicts have feelings too.

Cross-addicted

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?”

silence.

“yes.”

silence.

“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.

The Manchurian Candy-date

 
“Do you realize, Comrade, the implications of the weapon that has been placed at your disposal?……His brain has not only been washed, as they say, it’s been dry-cleaned.”
Doctor Yen Lo
The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
*
It’s always been the thrill of the chase where I got my adrenaline rush.  If I could easily attract a man, I didn’t want him. It was always that forbidden fruit, the one that was just out of reach was the one I wanted.  The distant, distracted, “hard-to-get”, down right disinterested guy.  Ohhhhhhh…..now there’s my candy.   That’s where I set my sights.   Put quite simply,  if it’s a man’s intellectual complexity that piques my interest, it was the power exchange that kept it.  How boring indeed would it be to color neatly  in the lines, follow all the rules.   Ah, but to attempt a coup d’etat! To usurp the power.  And that’s what I always did.
*
The mind fuck has been and probably always will be at the center of what drew me to D/s.  Our brain is the largest sex organ we own.  It needs to be stated that for my mind to be tapped into, I knew I would need to find a worthy adversary.  A Dominant I surmised, that could perhaps surpass my own intellect and psychological savoir faire.  A Napalm lover that had the power to blow my fucking mind with the possibility of me sustaining damage drew me like a moth to a flame.
*
Back when I was living that lifestyle, I was surrounded by a community of people who believed that BDSM was some kind of higher evolution.  That the lifestyle was sort of a more evolved way of being.  Practically proclaiming to be near the pinnacle of Maslow’s hierarchy of self-actualization for fucks sake.   That through the lifestyle, this “deeper” level of intimacy and trust can be achieved; a richer bonding experience takes place than in a vanilla relationship can possibly bring to fruition.   Almost sounded cult-y if you weren’t already entrenched in it.
*
It took me a few years on a therapist couch to discover that most of these blokes are re-enacting their own trauma histories, myself included.   Most of the Dominants I find, have childhoods riddled with victimization of merciless bullying at the hands of their peers and/or sadistic caregivers.  I also found that most Dominants have major control issues which is why they need to be the one in the position of power wielding the crop, cane, flogger, or paddle.  You won’t find them being hog-tied, bound, or otherwise put inro a position where they will be made vulnerable.  Submissives paradoxically, are the ones who are more inherently dominant, they are the ones who are more risk takers, able to be bound, caged, suspended, lit on fire, clamped, whipped et cetera.   It’s not about trust, they have brass balls.
*
But knowing all this information is useless.
*
Because at 3:00 AM on some idle Tuesday, when I received a text from my ex-Dom months after he dumped me, my addict mind kicks into overdrive.  Just like Raymond Shaw, hypnotically I place the clover leafs on my tits, grab my dildo and lube it up, as I  instantly become his anal whore again, screaming to no one, to the empty space around me, as I cum for him, “Ohhh..Daddy! Daddy!I love you!”  just as like taught me to do.
*
Maybe my brain has been dry cleaned.
*
Where are those hired goons who grab you in the middle of the night and throw you in a van to an undisclosed location to de-program your ass?  Oh yeah, that’s right that was the 70’s.   Now  you go to Church basements and find 12 step meetings and work the steps.   Shit, nothing says love like hired goons.   And it sounds so much fucking easier~

Back pocket girl

When I was only eight years old I remember walking around the neighborhood
just before dark. I would peer into the homes just around suppertime. I could
smell wonderful things cooking as they wafted through the air. I would
occasionally stop and see a family sitting down to eat through their front
window. I’d stop and stand there, eyes transfixed. “Should this be what a family is like?” I
thought. They seemed so peaceful, happy even, smiling as they ate together.
There was no belt on their kitchen table. They’re allowed to talk during dinner.

To be loved, I wanted that so badly……. that it actually ached inside my little chest.

I knew I wasn’t cute enough, smart enough, or good enough. I held fast to the idea that one of my teachers might “see” how badly I wanted rescuing. If I just was nice enough, they might take me home in their back pocket and give me a new life. But…. that never did happen.

No one ever knew the shit that went on in my house behind the picket white fence.

Months turned to years and my fantasy of finding a “home”,  someone to adopt
me and rescue me from the hellish existence took on new form. As I entered
womanhood, I stumbled rather curiously into my own untapped potential of
sexuality.

However sex to me was a perversion, a remnant of the past, that I wanted
to stay buried. Wreckage of painful childhood memories, its unspeakable trauma and
hidden scars, left sexuality for me inexplicably fused with terror.

Men looked at me now, all fully developed and seemingly wanted me or so I
initially thought. The opportunity for love came rushing to the forefront again. But I, I was a quick study, I inherently knew, they didn’t
want me, they wanted what was between my legs. And so began a deep-seated anger. I
resented men. For I wanted their love, their affection and they…….they only wanted sex.

Sex; used to hurt me as a child.
Used as a game, a weapon, to exploit me, humiliate me,  abuse me.

How on earth would I ever find a home now? How on earth since I wasn’t
a “cute” little girl anymore I pondered, if I would only be seen as a sexual thing, was anyone
ever going to love me.

I hated my body, it had betrayed me.

I hated myself for being such an unlovable damaged piece of shit.

My dream of finding love seemed as elusive as it ever had before, and fading
fast….