HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Whew!  Negotiated Christmas with It.  I had the children Christmas day.  The day after, It drove the children fifteen hours through the snowstorm to a resort.  Oh, haven't I updated you in the divorce process?  Wow!  We need to catch up!  After you, yes, YOU, gave him a HUGE settlement for leaving active duty service (I will just say Thank You, Taxpayers for him because he will never acknowledge your gift.), there was discussion among the lawyers regarding renegotiating child support.  Turns out, there's no money left.  Pay out first of October.  Money's gone by the new year.  It would like to claim indigency or whatever it is when you're broke and don't want to pay support.  My little brain is trying to work it's way around tens of thousands of dollars in a payout and a week long, Christmas vacation at a resort somehow = bankruptcy. 

The Poorhouse

Okay, that's the money issues.  Dirty laundry aired.  I don't know 'bout you, but I feel cleaner.  On to the next issue.  Ladies and gentleman, tentatively, I say we may have won this one.  Those of you out there know to whom I'm speaking.  Those of you dealing with your own N's, there is hope.  Thankfully, there's a library of blogs available from people, both professionals and regular people like us, who have dealt with these inhumans and can share their experiences.  Using them as my Yoda, I have taken what works and incorporated it into my dealings with It.  I'll bullet those things which I found the most helpful:

• Restraining/Protective Order:  The N cannot help him/herself.  Contact with you provides his much needed source.  We both know the N is so much smarter than the police and the judges, he will violate the order consistently and amazingly.  No matter, the order is needed to maintain order, to grant you the necessary space you need to heal. 
• File Violations:  This sounds obvious, but it is tedious, time consuming, and costly.  Thankfully, the cost to you is only your time and wages lost.   The costs to the N are far greater.  Document, document, document every time the N violates the order.  If there is any question whether s/he has, call your local District Commissioner or State's Attorney with specific questions.  I have found first violations are a warning; subsequent violations are taken much more seriously. 
• Keep a Binder:  If yours is like mine, there will be SO many questionable actions and comments, you will never be able to remember them.  I found writing them on the calendar in my smart phone was a great reminder.  When you have time, write out what has happened, for example, mine made promises (bribes) to the children.  I wrote down exactly what was said, the date and time.  I later went back and pulled my phone records and attached the record with my documentation of the conversation and placed it in the binder.  Organize your binder however you like, by date, etc...  I have a couple binders.  One deals with strictly his interactions with the children and another is legal and it is separated into Domestic Violence, Finances, etc...
• NEVER, EVER Respond:  This is the tough one.  I can honestly say yours is like mine.  They are no different.  Sadly, they conduct themselves in the same way you would expect.  You're smiling aren't you?  Wouldn't it kill them to know they are not unique?  Mine's great at ferreting out a reaction from me.  He knows the tricks; he knows the "codes" that will incite me to respond.  Meditation was a great help with this one.  Also realizing his total and complete inconsequentialness helped.  I've been separated for well over a year and still feared his response if I didn't "play nice."  Realizing he had absolutely no control over me released me. 
• Let Go, Let God:  God, Buddha, your cat, whatever deity or form of peace you believe in, give all your stress, hurt, and anger to it.  So easy for her to say, you're thinking?  Ah, back right up!  This is coming from the lady who was raped just so she would "know her place" before events (military balls, church functions, family outings...) and had to smile and pretend it never happened.  What I am saying is if I can tell you to let it go, you can trust me, you can let it go.  I think those of us so badly mistreated become mini-control freaks.  We can't control what they do to our bodies or our minds so we try to control our environments.  Remember madly cleaning the house before he came home from work so an out of place toy didn't send him into a rage allowing him all the anger he needed to completely lose it and justify choking the shit out of you?  Yeah, that kind of control of our environment.  If you have lost your loser, this is the time to let go.  You are safe now.  You can breathe.  Let go.....  When, not if, when he pops up like the human herpe he is, deal with it on an as needed basis.  Otherwise, his existence, EVEN IN THOSE COURT ORDERED TIMES WHEN HE HAS YOUR CHILDREN, LET GO!  You deserve your life and your sanity. 

Hmmm....that's all I can think of right now besides Hire a Great Lawyer.  I think I'm so freaked out by the memory of those damn sexual assaults.... I mean, seriously, there were times I was in a freaking ball gown and hose for god's sake and he had to rape me like an animal assuming an alpha position in the pack.  Later on, at the functions, he would point out men who maybe glanced at me and tell me how they desired me and if they only knew the things he did to me.  What.  A.  Complete and Total.  Sick.  Fucker. 

"Sometimes I guess there's just not enough rocks."



Thought of the Day!

Today's Thought of the Day is brought to you by the Letters L and J.  A highschooler in the eighties, I will now pass along the wisdom gained from the iconic and abtastic, L.L. Cool J.

"You can't let your past

hold your future hostage."

Yes, the ladies do love Cool James....but only for his mind.  Remember to breathe.  Have a Great Thursday!

For Every Action....

I've enjoyed a lull in contact (a week at least).  It made the normal attempts at conversations during court ordered interactions, but for the most part, I was left alone.  And then It found my address.  And home phone number.  It can't help itself.  The personality disturbed feed from those who were in it's control and weaning is difficult.  When I am frustrated and feel like giving up, I think of him as a big, ass baby who was allowed a bottle for fifteen years.  He's not going to give it up without a fight.  And I, like any responsible parent, must take away this inappropriate source.

The strategy is clear.  I must avoid all contact with It.  This isn't easy as we share children.  Thankfully, most of the interaction can be done through attorneys.  Speaking of, girlfriend to girlfriend, that stupid ass got about 20K as a parting gift from the Army and is bleeding through it like my period on aspirin.  I knew this "gift" would mean more court appearances.  The Beast looooves his day in court.  It appears that I'm being taken to court to discuss Christmas visitation.  I'm dressing up for the occasion and taking eggnog in a thermos.  There's no reason these frequent court appearances have to be dour occasions. 

I digress....what I am attempting to blog is my new found strategy for dealing with beastly eruptions.  He rails.  He threatens.  He condemns.  He accuses.  It's a round robin of the same old story - I'm a whore.  I'm crazy.  I'm a drug addict.  I'm abusive.  We circle through the accusations like we're weaving a square on the dance floor at an old fashioned hoe-down but without the Norman Rockwell innocence.  He's not unique.  There's nothing new about these accusations.   They are as old as the concept of divorce.  Men with disorders such as his use the same Big Four accusations in court.  There really should be a form as it would make the judge's work so much easier.  Whore?  Check yes or no.  Drug Addict?  Check yes or no....  My best guess, as each of these has been proven unfounded, is that I might suddenly slip and become one of the Big Four?  Is that what we're hoping?  Like his accusations, Beast erupts regularly.

Before, I reacted.  Fight or flight.  The rush of adrenaline clouded my judgement and I reacted rather than formed a plan.  That is what the narcissist needs.

Neurons reacting

"When and if you react in anger at the N (narcissist) you are also playing their game. They want a reaction from you. Ignoring them, or completely shutting them out is one tactic they hate (think spoiled child). If they have harmed you in some way, in your professional or personal life, you may find it difficult to forgive them. Why should you? You will be hurting yourself again if you do forgive them," (Narcissism 101, para. 8).

We will discuss why forgiveness is totally unnecessary in another post.  Right now, let's get on with reaction.  Peace.  The Beast covets it because it cannot ever have it and cannot understand it.  Instinctively, It knows that given a measure of peace, I can regroup and logically and systematically tear apart his incessant lies.  That's also the reason It wouldn't let me sleep.  It's primary goal in life was to keep me unsettled and ill at ease making his attacks all the more successful. 

Time is the enemy.  Beast and his lawyer want answers RIGHT NOW!  They change visitations up to the last minutes, alter the times of appointments and court dates, and play the "I didn't say that" game.  Time is the kryptonite, the Vorpol Sword, the Excalibur.  But do you have any idea how hard it is to not react???  Accusations fly.  The lawyer makes demands and follow ups with an I'll-See-You-In-Court if I don't produce certain documents immediately, threats abound.  Somewhere, without any fanfare, Beast's lawyer became an extension of him and therefore, my abuser by proxy.  To the two of them, I have learned to say nothing.  This is so hard!  For those of you who are thoughtful, introspective people, I'm so in awe.  But those of you who have absolutely no "poker face," whose every emotion is revealed with the expressions on their faces, for those of you who leap and then look, for those of you like me, you know how difficult this thoughtful introspection is. 

Today, when It talks to me, I will not react.  Tomorrow, when It calls me on my unlisted number to show me It knows, I will not react.  Later this week, when It stalks my home, I will not react.  (Okay, I'm probably going to call the police on that one, but personally, I'm not reacting.  Not my job.  Let the police handle it.)  When It follows my car, same as the first verse.  Serenity and Inner Peace NOW!

"Between stimulus and response there is a space.

In that space is our power to choose our response.

In our response lies our growth and our freedom."

                               ---Victor Frankl

(Victor was an Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist as well as a

Holocaust survivor.)

Narcissism 101.  (n.d.)  Do you forgive a mad dog?  From http://www.narcissism101.com/CopingwithNarcissists/forgivenessforna.html

Wild Things

The nightmares are back.  Maybe it was seeing the domestic violence awareness placards positioned at the gate on my way work, daily reminders of the way things were.  Maybe it was receiving copies of the hospital records documenting the fractures in my hip and pubic symphysis from my "fall" down "stairs" in our one story home.  Maybe it was seeing him daily at the boys' soccer practices and games, having him park his car next to mine, sit behind me on the bleachers, eavesdrop on my conversations with the other soccer moms because the protective order does not state a distance he must maintain.  Does the reason matter?  The results are the same.  The minute I fall asleep, that drifting, peaceful place in between conscious and subconscious, I am jerked upright by an unbidden memory.  I don't recall that I was even asleep, and blissfully, I do not the recall the horror that has ripped me out of semi-consciousness.

This monstrous, half-place is like a train diverted.  I had expected to arrive in peaceful slumber and instead I am in a horrific place where my subconscious tries to bring to the surface the memories that I cannot, that I refuse to give voice.  Instead, they howl and clash in my dreams.  "Said the Wild Things, 'I'll eat you up!'"  In the morning, I am tired with the lingering dread of something not quite right with the world. 

And then I am angry.  Angrier than angry.  Furious.  Angry at It for taking 16 years of my life and continuing to eat away at the time I have left.  Angrier with me for giving those years away.  With the anger comes embarrassment.  How dare I feel sorry for myself when I have managed to escape, have broken the cycle with my children?

Being a "victim" sucks. 

Love Shouldn't Hurt

October is my birth month.  It is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month.  All over the base, signs lettered in my favorite color, purple, announce this.  I almost grin at how quickly he must dismiss them as he drives past.  Domestic violence does not exist for him.  The fury and violence I endured was of my own making.  I forced him to react so violently.  He is a "calm and peaceful man."  He would never do those things if I hadn't made him.  I do not know if he truly believes this or if deep down, in some tiny portion of his soul, there is an inkling of self awareness that tells him what he already knows.  He is a very, very sick and damaged and bad man.  Does he know?  Would he care?  Who knows???  Not my fight, except to prevent his imprinting on those beautiful, innocent children we share. 

Recently, I found the following bit of prose on another survivor's page and I want to share it here with you.  I have almost memorized it and have incorporated parts of it into my daily meditation.  There is a healing in these words and I am grateful to the anonymous author.

"It's not about 'justice'

Or the 'principle of it,'

So I will not react.

To do so wouldn't serve

My purpose.

I've done what I had to do and

I will do what I must

Because they asked me

To keep them safe and

I promised I would.

It was never for revenge

Against him.

It's not all about him;

It never was

And it never will be.

Nor is it about me.

It's about them

And always will be.

Love should not Hurt!"

"I have lived through this horror."

You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." You must do the thing you think you cannot do.      -Eleanor Roosevelt

I have lived through this horror.  I can take the next thing that comes along.  Fortunately (or unfortunately), I can predict my personal horror.  Thanks to our temporary custody agreement, I know that I will have to deal with It all of Tuesday as he has the children every Tuesday for a dinner visit and every other week starting on Wednesday leading up to his pick up of the children Friday night.  It doesn't like set schedules what he perceives as being told what to do.  Everything must be negotiated and battled to death as the narcissist feeds and thrives on negative (any) interaction.  It's being denied a pick up at 4pm becomes the basis for a week of repression and discrimination as the entire world is out to get It.  Fortunately, these tantrums are predictable. I even got the bonus plan this weekend.  It called me during the children's allotted time so I would answer and proceeded to scream at me and hurl all the accusations and abuse It's been denied.  Here's the key, I cannot change my situation, but I can change how I view it. 

It's attorney is threatening me with a 'motion to compel,' because I haven't completed the interrogatories.  I do as much as I can, when I can.  Writing answers to questions about rape and abuse is not therapeutic nor healing for me.  Instead, I am revictimized and traumatized in every attempt.  The nightmares are back; haven't slept well in two weeks.  The worst PTSD symptom is being on extreme alert.  Every car honk, backfire, knock at the door sends me into an internal, ephinephric frenzy.  I know that completing these questions brings me one step closer to divorce, one step closer to eliminating a large chunk of his presence from my life.  It thrives on the divorce process seeing it for what it truly is, a way and means to punish me.  I'll finish my writing here and open the interrogatory and write as much as I can for today.

The Zen of It

The way I see it, no one should stay in a marriage with someone who makes them "less." No one should stay if they are being abused, in any way. Better to suffer a divorce than suffer a life of Less Than. I was scared to leave. Early on in our marriage, It told me if I left, he would find me and kill me and raise our infant son with his "real soul mate, Shawn" (female, not male).  The threats evolved over the years. What I failed to notice is the threats changed in relation to my personal change. The stronger, more self assured I became, the lesser the threat. He was shrinking, but I had been so conditioned with the fear and pain of abuse that I could not see. After death and dismemberment, his plan was to take our son and run away so I would never see him again.  And of course, let's all chime in....be raised by his "real soul mate, Shawn."  Uh, please to explain?  If I'm in bits and pieces, I think "seeing" anything is the least of my problems.  As usual, these were not well thought out plans. 

We played out various incarnations of "If You Leave Me I'll...." throughout the 16 year shit storm that was our marriage. If any of you are staying in relationships because of It's threats, let me share with you where we are now. The constant threat is "If you divorce me, I'll file for joint custody!" Wow. After chopping me up in little pieces and dropping me in the Rio Grande, that's all ya got? When I am mired in the tedious divorce proceedings that I little understand, I remember the early threats and have to smile. Bullies are bullies are bullies. They are not original. It's threats are as meaningful as a two year old holding his breath for an ice cream cone at McDonald's. Now when the illegal phone calls, voice mails, and texts are pouring in, when I have to legally give in to It's convoluted, complicated, ever changing visitation demands, I simply take a deep breath and remember that It’s threats are negotiable. It cannot follow me inside myself, to where I am strong and whole. Life without It – the truest state of Zen, a heaven on earth.

Wicked It.  "My threats are melting....melting...."

The Military Protective Suggestion

So I have this thing called a Military Protective Order, more like a suggestion, really.  Yes, should be called the Military Protective Suggestion.  It's a piece of paper that 'suggests' all of the ways that Beast shall not contact me.  It's pretty specific as it lists street names and provides me a zone of protection within that area.  Beast was using co-workers homes two doors down and a mile away as staging areas.  The MPO prohibits that behavior.  Or should.  The paper also specifically states that he cannot call me.  Like he did on the May 14th.  And May 22nd.  And May 23rd.  And last night on the 24th. 

I have a bunch of orders.  If I had a dollar....;) The court order from my divorce proceedings mandates that the kids call him at a specific time each night.  There's only an hour window to receive the calls yet he managed to not be available the last three nights in a row necessitating his calling me back.  Which is a no-no.  But not in regular, ol' divorce court.  But in criminal court, he can't call with the protective order in place.  I'm supposed to be "nice and fair" and not report his violations of the protective order because he "only wants to talk to his kids."  Okay, answer the phone.  It's an hour a day.  I have cut that time down considerably by having them call at the same time every night.  It's not like he can't predict this.  There's no element of surprise to their calls. 

Last night was particularly hurtful to my 9 year old.  He called at the specified time and the Beast's lackey answered.  Lackey said, "Betty?" My son said, "Hi Dad!"  Lackey hung up on my son.  Thankfully, my son believed me when I shook my head and complained about "bad cell phone reception" and how those darn phones are always hanging up on people. 

So Beasty, what's the game?  This is a new one of which I'm unfamiliar with the rules.  You fought desperately in court for these nightly calls.  Fought me and tried to charge me with contempt when the kids refused to call you.  After all, the court said, I can make them go to school and make them go to bed, but I can't make them call their father?  You won.  We have to call you every, single night at a specific time.  But you're not answering the phone.  Then, ten, twenty minutes later you call.  You let it ring until someone answers and then hang up. You call and let it ring once and hang up.  Last night, you called and initiated a conversation with me.  What's the name of this game and how do I stop playing because I want no part of it.

Oh, yes.  You're probably wondering why I mentioned the MPO.  It's very clear.  Beast shall not call Betty for any reason.  None.  But he did.  And I told them.  I told the Commander that issued the order.  I told the prosecuter, another member of their illustrious unit.  I told the cops.   I told the victim's advocate.  I told my mama.  I'm telling you.

See, funny thing about the military.  It operates solely on integrity and order.  Without either one, the Army will fail.  When an order is given, it is followed and not part of it or followed when we feel like it - it's followed.  Instead, I have a prosecutor, an officer in the Army, asking if I would like the order changed or rescinded.  Know why?  Yeah.  So they don't have to enforce the order.  Because they can't.  And I'm pretty sure you don't have to be a Sailor to know what that's called.

Character Assassination

Count yesterday as another set back.  I had been doing so well, making huge progress that was both shocking and pleasing to me.  Yesterday morning was spent in the courthouse and if I believed the opposing attorney, I'm a nut because I've accused the beast of abuse and assault.  In his attorney's words, if Beast had done the things I've accused him of then, "he would be a monster."  Yeah, are you getting it?  Looks like their game plan is to show that I am ten shades of crazy by accusing him of doing the things he has done.  Not that beast is crazy for actually doing them.  Can that really be what beast and attorney are pinning their hopes on - that I will somehow fail a psychiatric and social work custody evaulation?  I have seem many strange things occur in my lifetime.  Giving four innocent children to a "monster" would be the most astounding and unbelievable.  I wouldn't underestimate the courts.  I do not take this lightly.  Just please no stupid Rorschach test.  I've never taken it and have no idea what I'm supposed to "see" in a blob of paint!

The Wild Beast Test

I was struck with a bit of ironic humor this week. My “pet” name for my husband has been mostly, The Beast, as most of his acts are inhumane. The irony of the history of his main legal defense does not escape my notice. As our current legal system is based on that of old England’s, so is the modern insanity plea. In 1723, a British justice established the “Wild Beast Test” on which our modern insanity plea is loosely based. The test states, “to be exempt from punishment: it must be a man that is totally deprived of his understanding and memory, and doth not know what he is doing, no more than an infant, than a brute, or a wild beast, such a one is never the object of punishment.”

My Beast has decided to hang his future on his being a brute, a wild beast, not conscious of what he is doing, not capable of moral right and wrong. But you and I know this is simply not true. Just today, he chose to violate both the civil protective order and the military protective order. Sure, he can say he is starkers and doesn’t know what he is doing, but he knows exactly what he is doing. He was manipulative and cunning. His words to me were carefully crafted to draw me in. He wanted to discuss my future, my children’s future, his ability to provide healthcare and financial support. That was the last of us; then the conversation turned solely to him. He wanted to tell me how poorly he was doing, how much money the lawyers were costing him, how his job was affected…. And all the while he has been throwing me under the bus to save himself, going after me in civilian divorce court to make himself look better, like the more fit parent.

When I brought up the neighbors that he had drawn into his web and had convinced to take pictures of me, my house, and my visitors, to third-party stalk me, he denied any culpability. He stated the neighbors were harassing me of their own accord. When I pointed out the sheer ludicrousness of that statement, he then said the attorneys must have asked the neighbors the spy on me. Always an answer and always a deflection away from him, he will never accept blame. Currently, he is upset that he may actually do time for assault. He cannot fathom why this would occur. You or I can grasp that if we beat someone, we may go to jail. This concept is above his understanding. I forget the basic tenet of talking to a narcissist – he is perpetually five years old.

Today, my teeth did not chatter. My hands did not shake. I saw him today. Really saw him. He is not the omnipotent god that ruled my life and my house for almost 16 years. He is a man. He pulled up his uniform and undershirt to show me how much weight he has lost, 42 pounds he kept parroting, and I was confronted with the sight of his bare skin. His body was foreign to me. He is an old man I once knew many years ag, as foreign to me now as the playgrounds of my childhood, just a memory of something I had lived through, had endured. Whatever hold he once had on me has been completely severed. I don’t think he has realized this yet. If he had, he would have tantrumed. When he does, he will strike out; punish me as the narcissist does. How dare she not want ME? I am ready. It is just noise from someone I do not know.

Worst Case Scenario

My ten year old and I are experimenting with Worst Case Scenarios. Every morning, he wakes up to dread. He doesn’t want to go to school because he’s behind in his homework after being out sick for a week. Each morning, he suffers from various somatic ailments: migraine, stomachache, vomiting, etc… and explains he should not go to school, not fully understanding the vicious cycle that occurs. He stays home – School work piles up – Doesn’t want to go to school – Gets sick – Stays home. And round and round. Instead of whining and dreaming up ailments, we’ve been redirecting our thinking into Worst Case Scenarios. What’s the worst that can happen if you go to school today? His answer is usually, “I don’t have my make-up work done and I will have to sit out of recess.” Then I counter with, “So, you will have to miss recess? You’re not going to have to miss lunch to do your work and starve? Your teacher will not pull you to the front of the class and say, nyah, nyah, nyah, he didn’t do his work? Aliens will not drop from the sky and abduct all of the children who are behind in make-up work?” Usually by the third crazy outcome, he understands that truly, the worst case scenario is missing recess and maybe facing some disappointment from a beloved teacher. There are no long term repercussions. No one is going to lose a limb or face public ridicule. It’s just recess. Sucks, but it’s just one recess.

Taking a cue from my son, I’m learning to think Worst Case Scenario in my own life. In dealing with the beast, there are always going to be beastly outbreaks that will need to be contained. I’m learning to slowly let go of the hyper vigilance by imaging the worst case scenario. Worst Case Scenario in our divorce? I lose custody of the kids. That would be the absolute worst possible outcome. Is it likely? Absolutely not. But envisioning the absolute worst thing that can happen is empowering. Not only do I think, "Okay, what’s the worst that can happen?"  I also envision the solutions to the problem.  Worst case scenario is losing my kids. Is this a likely scenario? Nah, I would only lose three as my oldest is old enough to decide where he wants to go and he wants to live with his mom. Am I doing everything I can to keep that worst possible future from happening? Of course! My kids are well taken care of both physically, medically, and emotionally. I document everything I do and for them and make sure that I am in contact with the other adults who have interest in their lives, the pediatrician, teachers, etc… I do everything in my power to not speak badly about their father to them and comply with court orders. But after doing everything you can, you must let go. The rest is in the courts and the judges hands.  When we imagine the worst that can happen and realize we have  power only over our own situation, we are freed to live our lives without fear.

Good Thursday Morning!

The 6 AM Me that woke up mad at the neighbors for disturbing my sleep a whole hour early has an evil twin. That bitch turned off my alarm! When I finally awoke pleasantly well-rested at 8 AM, I woke to chaos. Sometime in the night, my youngest had climbed up next to me in my bed, lovingly curled his sweet, little body next to mine, and dumped the entire contents of his bladder on my mattress. I popped little guy in the master bath and made a dash to the laundry area with the sheets. On my way there, I eyeballed a floor dotted with yellow confetti in the boys’ room. I dumped the sheets on the washer and figured-eighted back to the bedroom, stopping to see that last night, my next oldest had spilled his bag of corn all over his room. Corn?  Yeah, corn. Last fall, his class took a field trip to a farm.  He was "lucky" enough to bring home a ratty, wizened ear of “popping” corn. The ear had evolved to a Ziploc bag of shriveled up kernels that he would carry around, intermittently reminding me that I had not yet popped them. Feed the dog – pick up corn? Feed the dog – pick up corn? Dog.

The entire time, the image of the pieces of my nemesis, my coffee bean grinding jackal of a coffee maker, was dancing in my head, growing ever so farther away. Back to the bathroom, wrapped little guy in a towel, spiked his hair like the “big boys”, and jumped in the shower. Important parts, deodorant, thank god I was lazy and still had mascara from last night. Lipstick! Two more little boys dressed and sent to wake up their older brother a task they enjoy as it involves torture. Pants. No pants. Curses!  In the dead of night, an evil leprechaun had snuck in the house and shrunk all my work pants. Come to think of it, he’d shrunk most of my shirts, too. Shrunken pants, no coffee, and confetti are the themes we were working with as someone decided to empty the contents of the three-hole punch on the living room floor. Pesky leprechaun.  Hmmm…I think we’re a little early for Fiesta and cascarones. Shoes, coats, breakfast for boys. Purse, granola bar, keys for mom. Only a cursory glance at last night's half empty cappuchino sitting in the cupholder of the truck.  Botulism avoided.  Dropped off oldest boy, embarrassing PDA in front of his classmates.  Made it to work with five minutes to spare. Not bad, not bad at all for a brain on PTSD. Just think what I can accomplish when I make it back.

BLISTER MAN - The Human Herpe

This past weekend was the last one I will ever waste on the beast. The more knowledge I gain about his disease, Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) and mine, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), the more empowered I become. Information: just the thing an N fears. Narcissists are not the sweet, but cautionary Greek myth, lovely Narcissis lounging by the lake. Narcissists are dark and evil because they know the difference between good and bad, wrong and right. They are entirely fear-driven and motivated choosing to act as they do. The simply have to as their entire psyche depends on their devaluing and destroying another person to feed off of their talents, time, and energy. Without this psychic feeding, the N will wither and die.

Lacking any true human feelings, there is no love, no understanding, no empathy, sympathy, or compassion, only fear; Ns must feed off of us blessedly, normal folks. There is one primary source of nutrition for an N, usually his partner, and prior to that, always his family of origin. In the absence of a regular primary source, the public become targets. Ns can sustain themselves through extreme interactions with others.  For example, causing a fight in a bar would sustain an N with enough powerful, negative energy till the primary source returns. Causing bar fights over imagined slights and creating long distance, telephonic drama with an exgirlfriend/source sustained my N until he became my symbiote. The process is quite simplistic. Think of amebas in high school, science lab squishing their way over food and ingesting it. Like that, an N will need to feed, will suckle on their primary source absorbing positive or negative energy and emotions. N doesn’t care because N doesn’t feel. All N knows is that you feel SOMETHING for him and he wants it. In the last years of our marriage, N thrived off of my revulsion and disgust for him. Love, disgust, hatred, the emotions and energy are all the same to an N. They are all food.

What I have learned from the valuable resources on the web, have freed me. Even though N is not living with me, we live in the same, small area. He insists on contact even though there are civilian and military protective orders in place. He HAS to make contact. I am his source. He needs to feed. Right now, he can gain adoration and attention from the lower enlisteds living near him. If they are naïve or not astute enough to see through his shell, those 19 or 20 year olds will listen raptly and provide him with an appetizer. His mother, his lawyer, and frequent run-ins at work will also provide him with a chance to graze. But they are not enough. N will continue to return to the blood source, his supply, and his drug.

It is my job to cut him off. I have recently signed a No Contact Contract http://www.runboard.com/bnarcissisticabuserecovery.f15.t140#post252  with myself. Even though there are court orders in place guaranteeing no contact, I’ve seen how effective those have been. Just last week, the fact that he had a minion spying on me, driving past my home, reporting to him, was brought to my attention. Third party stalking, I think he invented a new felony. My job is to now see him for what he is: a horrid outbreak, a wizened, little leaf on the Derek Jeter Herpes Tree, an insignificant virus.

Plenty of people have herpes. Sucks, I’m certain! I’ve had a cold sore; I don’t want to imagine what the other strain of the virus feels like. But it is only a virus. It’s not AIDS, not even HIV. It’s not even the Big C. It’s a pesky, minor virus that pops up when you are worn down and least expect it. Sure, you have to deal with it and it’s a pain in the butt, quite literally, but you will survive!  The length and strength of the outbreak can be contained by use of an antiviral. Those people, who are prepared, knowing an outbreak is always imminent, suffer the least. I can arm myself with my own antivirals: my lawyers, organized documentation and records.

Lying in bed, engulfed in my own pity party, frightened by not knowing when the next outbreak (contact) will occur is a pointless waste of time. The N’s goal is to paralyze his victims so he can create panic and chaos on which to feed.  Today, I refuse to let my ‘virus’, this blister on the butt of humanity, keep me from living. Until my last child turns 18, I can expect frequent outbreaks. There is nothing I can do to control them. I will not waste precious time or energy thinking I have power over this. I am armed with antivirals. When the next outbreak occurs, I will insulate myself from it and let them do their job.

Do You Know the Monkey Man?

The DSMV-IV defines narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) as a person having “a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and a lack of empathy.” Anyone who has had the pleasure of interacting with one for any length of time will be quick to tell you that the DSMV-IV is the epitome of understatement. There’s not space enough to describe in detail what living with an “N” is like so that you can truly taste it and experience the true horror that daily life is with one of them.

Here is my rapid assessment, my quick ‘recipe’ of a life with an N. Take the sanitized DSMV definition and add these “facts”: You are the ugliest, dumbest, most wretched person on the planet. Not a single thing you have ever done in your life was correct. You make all the wrong choices. Hell, even the bodily urge to use the restroom shows poor judgment and bad life management. Take all of the money you have ever earned, saved, or will earn and burn it in the grill out back. Next, tell your boss and co-workers that you will be late to work and miss a few days due to his excessive needs. Should you ignore those needs, expect frequent visits to your work from your N and expect to be fired. Repeatedly. Now, write a letter to all your loved ones, friends, family, even children, explaining to them that your entire being is needed for the lifetime of the N to soothe his soul, proclaim his Excellency, and play stupid to his superior intellect even though he was in Special Ed classes in grade school and you skipped a grade and were in that horridly named, “Gifted and Talented” group. Oh, make sure you lie about your IQ score if you ever divulge it at all. The N will never be able to absorb the absolute fact that you have a higher score and will try to destroy you. How, you wonder?

The N wants what you have. He wants your intellect. He wants your talents. He wants your feelings. If he is not as smart, he will simply take your head in hands and pound it against a doorframe or cement floor until he is satisfied that you are concussed to the point of syncope. He is not smart enough to calculate how many brain cells are lost with each pounding, of course not! Goodness, if he were, he’d realize that a more effective way would be to ply his prey with alcohol. He has a better chance of destroying brain cells in that way. But his lack of intellect and his deep seeded, instinctual knowledge of his inadequacies are why you’re taking a thrashing in the first place!

The last time he was sitting on me pounding my head into the floor, I was able to see his face the entire time. I watched his uneven, shallow breathing through his pursed lips, watched his eyes narrow in pleasure at what he assumed was me either crying or choking for that last, precious breath before he choked me to passing out and then raped me. Instead, imagine his shock, and I really hope horror, when he realized I was laughing. A grown man - a fat, doughy, grown man, sitting astride a woman, smaller than he, holding her head in hands and banging it on the floor because she dared question him. The entire time, I had a line from a BBC animal show stuck in my head, probably pounded into place, that he quoted when he was making fun of someone, “Monkeys use tools.” I have no idea why, but the image of that beast sitting on me, banging my head like a coconut made me laugh and laugh until I thought I would pass out. Dumb, primitive monkeys don’t like their prey to laugh. What my N wanted to see reflected in the mirror that was my face, the fear, the powerlessness the submission, was not there. Instead, he saw ridicule and incredulity. He shoved off of me, placing his squatty, short fingers into my chest and pushing off, making sure he pushed all the air out, leaving me gasping and in pain, but he got off of me.  Give them a reflection they don't want to see, a mirror of their true self, and they have to run away.

Courage in a Cup

My best friend pointed out to me yesterday that I am not living; I'm constantly preparing.  I'm on high alert status, ever watchful for the next attack by the Jabberwocky.  I explained that my mindfulness of the danger is my way of being prepared.  If I can critically analyze his actions and words, I can estimate where and when the next attack will occur.  But as my friend pointed out, that is not living.  That is fearing.  I am fearful of what he might do, of what he can do.  I'm not fearful of what he did.  That damage is done and the repercussions long to overcome. 

Recently, in a daily email I receive, was this quote by Sir Richard Bowlby, "There are two types of fear: the absence of safety and the presence of danger."  During my marriage, I experienced both types of fear as I lived in the absence of safety and in the constant presence of danger.  The only safety could be found during deployments and TDYs.  I grew accustomed to life in a hypervigilant, Code Red status, ever fearful and aware that an attack was imminent.   

The worst occured when your guard was dropped, even for a moment.  He was quick to sense and strike at those moments of weakness.  Those were the only times that could be predicted and those were the times that were least expected.  Better to be alert, than to be caught unawares.  Now that I am separated and protected by the courts from his presence, I find myself  in a state of near-panic, waiting for the next assault.  He is coming at me through the court systems.  His most recent physical assault failed resulting in less than desirable repercussions for him.  He strikes out at me legally, by proxy, through his lawyer.  He wants custody, he wants me to take on more debt, he wants, he wants....He Wants....HE WANTS!  But that was a common refrain from our marriage, one to which I should be immune. 

This week, rather than "reading the tea leaves", trying to devine some sort of guesstimate to where his next attack will form, I'm going to focus on actual fear, fear in the presence of real, imminent danger.  Shark attacks, lightening strikes, 'gator bites, airplane collisions, while all real and dangerous threats, they are not a threat to me at this time.  Just like the Jabberwocky.  I am relegating him to the shark bite/mountain lion group.  While scary to contemplate, not a real threat at the moment.

To remind myself, I've ordered the Six Impossible Things coffee mug.  I don't know how many of you read with me, but if you do and happen to order it too, when you have your morning coffee, think of your six impossible things:

1.  Real men don't hit women.
2.  Children don't need both parents, especially if one is violent.
3.  Mommies can survive financially on their own.
4.  There are people who want me to succeed.
5.  I have worth.
6.  I can slay the Jabberwocky.

Witness Tampering 101

Today, my attorney called to ask me to essentially stop doing whatever it is I'm doing that's "making" the JAG attorney's prosecute Jabberwockey.  She had a conversation with his attorney and was told that if I am called to testify, my character will be destroyed on the stand resulting in my immediate dismissal from the military, possible devastating consequences to my divorce case, and general end of life as we know it.  From what I can piece together, Jabby told his attorney that he is not being court martialed and I need to shut my mouth and not poke the JAG beasts with a stick inciting them to court martial him.

I did not file charges.  For a military courts martial, the soldier's commander brings the charges which is what has happened.  If his attorney wants to apply undo pressure to someone with actual influence, he needs to talk to the commander.  I do not have the rank, authority, power, influence, money, whatever, to influence a federal court case. 

What I gleaned from a very confusing telephone call with my attorney, Jabby will be mean and inflexible in our divorce if I continue with the court martial.  That is the equivalent of saying I will grow carrots from apple seeds.  I have no influence over either of the two and certainly not a military court martial.  He is being charged with failure to obey a direct order.  I didn't give the order.  The person who did is charging him.  Let him and his lawyer call his commander and try to bargain with him. 

But let's analyze this. Jabby thinks I hold some sort of power. Has he seen a glimpse of the Alice in me? Does he really think I am capable of influencing the entire United States Judge Advocate Corps? Wow. And me without my Vorpol Sword.

Regaining My Muchness

I lived through the horror and I don’t understand it. Early on in our divorce, I needed ‘understanding’, the ‘why’ he hurt me. Not anymore. Maybe there is a reason: mental illness, moral deficiencies, he wasn’t hugged enough as a child. None of them matter. He damaged me in ways that may not be repaired. Does the ‘why’ matter? The brutal change occurred the day after our wedding. When I use the word, ‘day’, I mean I woke up from sleep to find a monster had replaced the man I had married. The day after our wedding began The Devaluation. Devaluation is described as a substantial drop in the value of an object, in our marriage, me. The day before, I was priceless, of great worth, and in my Mormon upbringing, a “10 cow wife.” Now, a day later, I was worthless.

He is quite simplistic in his true nature. When he wants something from you, he puts on the entire show. He will shower you with attention and affection; make you feel special. He will isolate you from friends and family because his absolute need for you is so great insuring a total dependence on him. I used to think of his attentive behavior as ‘peacock preening’, but the bird is too pretty to associate with the ugliness that follows. Parallel to his draining all of your emotional and physical reserves, the peacock parading slowly fades; he becomes uneasy. He will quit pretending and be who he truly is and the devaluation starts. I was confused, bewildered, baffled…what had I done wrong? This abrupt withdrawal of affection had to be my fault in some way unknown to me. How could a loving, attentive boyfriend turn into a mean, vindictive spouse overnight?

Early in our marriage, his nightly routine involved coming home from work and complaining about the cleanliness of the house. I began to anticipate his return. Every toy would be picked up. Every surface dusted. On one spotless, showroom house day, he came home and pounded through the house on a mission. He finally found the object he needed in the downstairs guest bathroom. The guest hand towel was hung askew. I received an hour long belittlement about the value of symmetry and cleanliness.

We are not stupid people, those of us who love these two-faces. We don’t volunteer for the abuse. We don’t ask for or seek it. These people abuse us because they are master manipulators. They lie and speak in mixed messages, denying their words later or stating we “misunderstood.” Out of love, we believe them. Out of fear, we stay.

In my life with him, I was Dorothy. I whirled around him, tangled within the swirling mess of the tornado he created while he was content to occupy the throne in middle, protected from the chaos and disorder. At the slightest hint of a drop in turbidity, the threat of calm, he would stir up discord causing the wild, undulating madness to begin anew. From the eye of the insanity, he watched his family, those he should, but cannot love, struggle through the chaos he’s orchestrated, reveling in the power he’s mastered. He is an inhabitant of his own self-created, self-contained, special world running parallel to ours, yet never meeting. He will never reach out a hand and pull us from the storm into safety. We will never meet in the middle. But we can step out away from him, out of the storm all together. We cannot understand the chaos and disorder in his mind, his need for disharmony. We cannot. We are normal. Blessedly, happily normal.

In my life without him, I am Alice. Keeper of the Vorpol Sword, Slayer of the Jabberwocky. With him, I had “lost my muchness,” though, not as much lost, as stolen. He exists only in our esteem, in how we view him. He steals our ‘muchness’ to use as his own because of his very low self esteem. He knows there is something inherently wrong with him, but lacks the emotional IQ to describe it. He is weak and must destroy the strong. He will describe how his other relationships were superior, how other women were better in bed, in the kitchen, with their children. If he doesn’t have previous relationships, he will compare you with his mother whom he secretly hates because even she didn’t have enough to satisfy his consuming needs.

That is before. That is Dorothy, lost and homeless amidst the storm. Before, if asked by the Caterpillar who am I, I wouldn’t have been able to answer having surrendered my identity to him long ago. This is now and the Alice-me knows this.

“Lost my muchness, have I?" It’s there. Slowly, I'm extricating myself from the storm, dusting off my dress, brushing the tangles out of my hair. Dorothy may have found her way home, but it was Alice who sliced off the Jabberwocky’s head and reclaimed herself.

Rabbit, Rabbit

I am ashamed of how I reacted when Beast broke into my house that Wednesday.  I was practically catatonic, still as a rabbit, those silly rabbits that sit quivering in the wet grass praying they have blended in and that you'll walk by.  I used to smile at the antics of those bunnies, giving themselves away with their panicked breathing, thinking they were disguised.  Not anymore.  Like the stupid bunnies, I remained motionless at the beginning of his onslaught.  I didn't help my friend, my son.  When I had to fight back, I did so with barely an effort.  I fell back into our well-worn pattern of acceptance.  Better to give in and accept my punishment than risk getting hurt worse for resisting.  For the first time, I believed the counselors.   I do have PTSD.  There's no other excuse for the inaction, the complete withdrawal and shock I underwent during and after the situation.

I am still missing chunks of emotions, unable to react appropriately to those I love.  I don't even bother to fake it anymore.  When Beast burst through the door and struck me in the face, whatever he hit out of me took a little bit of what was left of the thin shards of humanity he had allowed me to retain.  My six year old now asks on approach if he may hug me, that unapproachable I've become.  When I'm not comparing myself to a damaged, pit fighting mutt, (see earlier post) I feel like the rabbit, quivering, frozen to the spot knowing complete destruction is moments away, completely able, but unwilling to save himself.  And without a voice.  Save me from the rabbit-life.  The rabbit only finds it voice at the moment of it's violent death, issuing a high-pitched, keening howl.  I don't want my loudest cry for help to be when the rabbit howls.

I'm Still Here

"I'm okay.  I'm all right.  Hurricanes and train wrecks only last one night.  Would you believe all I've been through?" 

Even though we do not share the same experiences or challenges, Mindy McCready is giving me a voice, as I am certain she will do for many others who haven't found their own.  Not sure of where I stand, I'll borrow her lyrics until I can find the words to express what has happened, my previous reality.  The most important element in her song is self-motivated survival.  If we want to escape our demon - alcohol, drugs, or in my case, my husband, we may receive much needed help along the path, but our escape and recovery are meaningless if we do not save ourselves.

Mindy McCready's Im Still Here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uBL13e1hqs

I'm okay, I'm alright.
Hurricanes and trainwrecks only last one night
Would you believe all I've been through?
Had the hands of tempted fate
Oh, if you only knew
What it costs, how I wait
What I got, what I gave
Chorus:
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
It kept me and it saved me
I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here.
There was darkness, all around me
There were times I was sure I was drowning
There were people, who tried to reach me
But no matter how they loved me, I kept sinking
I got tired on my own hand, I reached inside and I saved myself
[Chorus]
This time I can survive.
I ain't dying on nobody else's cross
I ain't sufferin' no more unforgivin' loss
Oh, no.
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
I kept me and it saved me
And I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here,
I'm still here.

Silence Is Violence

There aren’t words to describe spousal abuse. There’s no prose, no poetry, no lyrical flow to the stream of words that describe the events. When I’m asked, by prosecuters, victims advocates, or police, I hear the words before I speak. Inside my head, there is the crinkling sound of crushing bone as my hips struck the garage floor. The melodic CLINK! of bone on ceramic, the sound of a skull striking the built-in soap dish. The smushed banana sound of someone stepping on unripened fruit, only the fruit is the flesh of the forearm and the stepper has Hitler goose-stepped his heel down upon it.

And with the physical, always the dull, disharmonic chords riding underneath, the words he is using to describe how worthless, how despicable, how non-human I am. He doesn’t know that he has overused his voice. I repeat the disgusting names he calls me in a grade-school, sing-song, over and over while he is attacking my body so he has no entry to my mind. In the process, I’m stripping them of all meaning, peeling away their ability to transfer any more hurt. “Whore” has no significance in my vocabulary, in my world. When I hear it uttered, I smile because the word is funny to me, it’s meaning having been replaced long ago by a nursery rhyme retelling.

This “telling”, what I have been programmed never to do, was foreign to me and to my children. Recently, he called me a tattle-tale in response to my telling my attorney some little divulged facts. I smiled at his choice of expression, so in keeping with the childlike marital existence we maintained. In the beginning, like any small child with a big secret, I stumbled over the words so eager to release them after so many years. Forbidden words like “rape”, “abuse”, and “child abuse”, tumbled unbidden out of my mouth. In the early days, no one was immune to the story. Start to finish, I told the Chase mortgage lady, the barista at Starbucks, the guidance counselor at the college, the receptionist at the doctor’s office. Those poor people! They were fantastic listeners and great sports. Thank you!

I was free to live my life in the open. And I gingerly, tenderly approach the subject with the children. They don’t follow their mother’s example, choosing to keep the past events close to their hearts, taking them out to examine them when they need to, having the opportunity to talk with professionals weekly.

The free flow expressionism has slowed to a trickle. I will answer if asked, but do not feel obliged to share. Slowly, domestic violence is becoming something that occurred to me rather than something I am.

American Eskimo

When I was a little girl, I had a beautiful, dog, an American Eskimo. Of course, my sister says she was her dog, but we all know who the dog loved best! One day, she was riding out a nasty, summer storm in our garage when lightning struck our house and blew out the light fixture on the garage ceiling. There must have been a huge flash of light, followed by that tangy scent of ozone, and shattered glass everywhere. The dog ran from the garage. From then on, every time there was a storm, she preferred to sit out in the open on the front porch convinced that lightening would strike the garage again. As a child, I would become so frustrated at her seeming stubbornness and would try to lure her with treats of human food and water bowls of Kool-Aid. She wouldn't budge.

After the events of last Wednesday, I have more understanding. I haven’t sat on the couch and watched TV. I haven’t sat on the couch that still backs up to the sliding back door. I haven’t watched American Idol. I want to. I love that particular piece of mindless, brain candy. But I can’t. Like my childhood pet, I’m equating sitting and relaxing with a particular TV show with The Beast showing up. So every night after work, I find more work to do. There’s always more laundry, more dishes, more homework, more dusting, more arranging, more folding, more anything…. Anything to keep from sitting down and being in a position of helplessness when he comes again.

American Idol

Wednesday night, after a long and busy day, I was excited, yes; I'll admit it, excited to curl up on the couch with a chunk of lemon, gooey butter cake and the latest live episode of American Idol. The week, all three days of it, had been filled with doctors and court appointments compounded with the extended recuperation time for my double-extraction of my wisdom tooth. Earlier in the week, the pain and low grade fever had proven just too tiring and completing all work, taking care of the kids, school, and chores had been difficult. I had just received my tax check and was allowing my little family one, big splurge - Rock Band for the Wii. After making that purchase at Wal-Mart, (seriously, Wal-Mart is NOT the place to be when you are overworked, overtired, and one wisdom tooth short of feeling fine!) we made a quick stop off at Taco Bell and were then ready for an evening of relaxation. The boys and I were ready to rock out with our tacos out to some American Idol and Rock Band!


After everyone was settled: my oldest chatting on the phone and online simultaneously with his friends, my next oldest playing with his DSi in his room, my 8 year old still unpacking Rock Band in search of the missing drum sticks, and my littlest asleep in his brother's bed, I brought the dog in and crated home as was my usual, evening, wind-down routine. I settled down on the couch with my friend, John, who had stopped by mid-tacos to check on us and was persuaded to stay for Idol. He was at one end of the couch, I at the other, my eight year old at our feet wrestling with the boxes and wrapping from the game box. I wasn't asking for much: not world peace, a cure for cancer, or an end to global warming (shout out to Barrow, Alaska here!) All I wanted was to watch some highly, marketable, twenty-somethings duke it out for a record contract and maybe eat a piece of cake or a couple squares of discount Valentine's Ghirardelli in the good company of my friend and children.

Instead, what I received was a thunderous explosion of sweaty ACUs. The stink of liquor and bad decisions heavy in the air as The Beast batted and pawed his way through the Levolors knocking them to the floor, making a sound that can only be described as the guttural bay of a Philly-born, feral hound. I had been lounging back on the arm of the couch and sat up abruptly, startled at the sound of the sliding glass door being popped off of its lock, the blinds swinging wildly out of control. I was quickly and summarily knocked down by the blow to the head and right side of the face as The Beast held his arm out stiff and slammed it into me. The Beast then dragged my friend by the collar, up and over the side of the couch and the two tumbled over and out the sliders like a pair of dangerously mismatched retro Weebles. Once outside, The Beast, taller and with more weight to throw around pinned my friend to the concrete and proceed to pound his head on the pavement. For a brief moment, my thoughts were lost in the rhythm of it: one potato, two potato, three potato, four....I must have given my head the cursory, visible shake which is my wont when the Beastly PTSD flashbacks paralyze my brain and realized I should help my friend. I tried to pry Beast off of him. I grabbed hold of a sweat soaked arm and inhaled the stale stench of cigarettes and the faint, sweet scent of alcohol. Pulling, while trying not to breathe too deeply, I tugged as hard as I could with no success. Beast pushed me off of him with enough force to knock me to the concrete pad face first. Thankfully, my jaw, still swollen from two oral surgeries a week apart, broke my fall. Having dispatched with bothersome me, Beast continued his assault on my friend. I scrambled up, made another call to 911, and then attempted to pull on one of his fleshy arms. Still no give. My oldest son, hearing the brawl, appeared in the doorway. Beast yelled for help, meaning help him subdue his wife and her friend. My son calmly informed Beast that he wasn't supposed to be there and he had called the cops.

When my friend finally succumbed to unconsciousness, having suffered a concussion prior, Beast turned his attention to me. Beast grabbed my right arm, yanking, pulling it up and out of the socket, pulling me off balance. I fell again, striking my hip and knees on the pavement, skidding and scratching up my ankles. My son tried to get the Beast off of me. I did not see how he was injured. I did not protect my child as I should have, rather I called 911 again, leaving him to be abused and injured. He was seen and treated at an urgent care center two days later for a sprain and pull to his left knee and an injured right foot. He had the usual ortho treatment of ice, elevation, and inflammatories, wrap, and was on crutches. Not once did my child strike, hit, or do anything to warrant being abused in that manner. My oldest son is a gentle child, never prone to violence. That is not his nature. That he would be forced to fight may be more heartbreaking and more damaging to his spirit than his injuries were to his body.

By then, my friend had regained consciousness and Beast was more interested in harming him than his child, probably seeing him as more of a threat than a slightly built, injured teen. My friend managed to get Beast from behind when my eight year old stepped outside where all of this was taking place. Beast bellowed for Jarrett to help him. My friend told him to go inside and get the phone. Beast said, "Not in front my kids, man," to which he released his grip. The Beast responded by pushing or shoving, some sort of movement I did not see; and then managed to get away. Beast made a run for his car, digging in his ACU pocket as he scaled the hill behind my home to where his car was hidden behind a six foot pile of snow in the elementary school parking lot. There, he threw something small into his car, shut the door, ran down the hill and started screaming into his cell phone what sounded like, "Let me in! Let me in!" He must have managed to find Sober, because he did not attempt to drive away knowing the police were soon to arrive. My friend, fearful he would come back and resume his assault, was in the way of his retreat. Beast swung at him with his cell phone. The second swing, he connected with the top of my friend's head. Beast then continued to run, running straight to the neighbor's home, the home of his co-worker two doors down. He didn't enter their back sliders as he normally would enter mine, sideways. Rather he entered full on as if the sliders were completely thrown open. At night. As if waiting. In the 30 to 40 degree temperature.

Later, I would peer into the car and see a tire iron surely meant for me lying on the passenger's seat. I never did see what he threw inside. The Beast’s commander later commented that JAG and the investigators would be looking into motive: what is Beast’s motivation for abusing me and attacking my friend. In the Army, if you have proper motive, is this behavior simply allowed, then? Or is this a unit by unit decision? I do not know the answer to this question and I cannot find anyone that does.

Thus ended my American Idol evening. It became an American Hero evening spent with police officers both civilian and MP, EMT and soldiers. Great guys, but no offense - I would much rather have had a Cheetos, Coke and Blockbuster evening.

A Million Little Pieces

Monday, I went to the dentist after struggling through the weekend with a swollen and inflamed wisdom tooth.  Surprisingly, the dentist ended up extracting the tooth right then in a process that took a lot longer than anyone thought as the tooth would not go willingly and broke  into "a million little pieces".  Twice I woke up disoriented and in pain during the process only to finally awake when the ordeal was over.  Having lived with and through the Beast (thanks, "C", for the newest nickname), I assumed I could make it through work on Tuesday.  And I did.  Painful and swollen, only to come home and make dinner, do a couple loads of laundry and dishes.  Just as I did now.  I sit here with tears streaming down my cheeks listening to the ever present sound of the dryer tossing the lavendar scented, clean little boy laundry around it's barrel.  I'm in more pain than I've been in quite a long time.  I can't differentiate between real and remembered pain.  I know that the swelling and quite possibly "dry socket" are real.  The pain meds are not working and the Motrin is not keeping the fever at bay.  But today was difficult.  Today, I met with a new counselor.  She fit me in her busy schedule and I did not think it polite to cancel even after surgery.  We discussed my pending court case tomorrow.  I explained how upset I will be tomorrow morning, how every time I have to look at him, I feel nauseous and how I was frightened that I would vomit and loosen the stitches in my mouth.  Another example of damage he causes whether intentional or not.

Of course, it only gets worse.  Upon arriving home, I received a fax from my attorney.  The Beast's greasy attorney sent a new order, this one negating everything I had fought and won over the past two months.  He is asking for a complete removal of the protective order.  The removal of my legal custody of the children.  Among other abominable things.  I live in a house provided by the Beast.  I hate it here.  It is a perfect home, a lovely home.  But it is provided at his mercy.  I want out of it so badly. 

If the protective order is lifted tomorrow morning, the Beast is free to come back.

The DV's

Little play on med humor there....Court is on Wednesday morning to decide on the permanence of the restraining order.  Honestly, I don't understand them.  I get the concept of what they are designed to do. They are a paper shield with the backing of the courts.  Got it.  What I don't understand are the different kinds of permanent ones.  I don't know which kind we are requesting.  Doesn't really matter.  All I know is that my temporary one expires Wednesday and I need a new one.

I am holding on to the hope that Wednesday will cure my "DVs".  Ever since he arrived back to the States, my hands haven't stopped shaking.  Makes typing a (long) adventure!  I tell myself I am strong and healthy and that his near presence is of no consequence to me and my family but my hands give me away.  They shake.  Constantly.  I suspect they shake even in my sleep.  I am hoping Wednesday cures this but have a sick feeling that only distance and time are the true cures.  We shall see....

Meanwhile, He has complied with the protective order.  Instead of contacting me, he has chosen to reach out and touch me in other ways.  First thing he did upon getting back to the states was to start texting my oldest son. Second thing he did was drain the joint banking account, $3,300 transferred to an unknown account.  Third thing, go to the AT&T store and block my access to the account.  Fourth thing, start calling all the numbers on my account.  Except for the numbers belonging to the women he picked up on MilitarySinglesConnection.com.  Somehow he knew those numbers and did not bother them.  As far as I know.  Fifth thing he did was to turn off the Internet in our home.  I still can't determine if this was done to punish my son for telling me about the serial texts to him (our son lives for and loves the Internet) or to punish me (I take classes on the Internet).  What he failed to take into consideration is that our two middle sons received laptops as their Big Presents for Christmas (from me.  He spent $40 on them for Christmas) and they love to spend time on the Internet after school doing their homework and looking up old Pokemon episodes and Sonic on YouTube.  He didn't punish me.  He punished the children. 

Wonder what he has planned for Number 6?

Alpha Male

Well, I'm actually doing it.  In a week or so, he will be served with the new divorce papers.  I'm not entirely sure why it will take that long but I have waited 15 years and 7 months;  one or two more weeks, while I would prefer yesterday, will not make that much of a difference.

We have no contact between each other and I am very happy for this.  During the course of our marriage, I was not allowed to say the word, "No".  Or rather, I could say it, but he would ask the same question over and over until I gave in and acquiesed to whatever it was that he wanted at the time.  This is primarily the reason we are not divorced. 

Another way he curtailed my actions was through sex.  I had to ask a friend what his actions meant as I had misunderstood his intent all these years.  When we had a particularly bad argument or I would not agree to something important to him, he would force himself on me.  I had mistakenly believed all these years that he thought being with him was so great it would change my mind.  A friend gently pointed out to me, that no.  He was not so self assured of his prowess that he was blowing my mind, therefore gaining compliance.  What he had been accomplishing all those years through forced sex was dominance.  As my friend put it, what he did to me was no different than what a human does to a dog that is out of control or overly dominant.  A human will lay on top of the dog to assert Alpha status.  He raped to assert his Alpha status.  I don't know how I could miss that.

Stockholm Syndrome

Am I simply overtired or still a little shell-shocked at the sheer boldness at which he has been lying to me for over a decade?  Is it ever accepatable to mourn the loss of a horrid relationship?  And what exactly am I mourning?  The loss I feel is not yet tangible and defies any explanation.

Rationally, I am aware that in no way should a woman ever feel the loss of a marriage to a "man" who:

• Broke her R hip
• Broke her pelvis
• Broke her R forearm
• Slit her scalp
• Threatened her with a firearm
• Pushed her
• Choked her 
• Slapped her
• Slammed her head on the wall, doorjam, car frame, floor
• Belittled her
• Took pornographic pictures and videos of her without her consent or knowledge
• and most horrific of all....hurt her children 

Can anyone please explain?  Life will be better.  Life will be normal.  Life will be safe.  Without him.  How do you undo the psychological damage of a decade?  Broken bones and bruised skin will heal but I'm afraid the soul never really recovers.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, is there any recovery for a battered, broken spouse?  Any hope of ever trusting again?

A friend of mine told me how his family moved from their childhood home a few miles away to a much better suited home on a quiet, lazy street.  Yet many nights, the family dog would traverse the busy roads, sometimes sustaining injuries to sleep on the porch of the old home.  Sleeping on the porch of the previous home wasn't better.  Traveling there certainly wasn't more comfortable and definitely not safer.  The dog had become conditioned to understand that was home.  Without question.  I wonder if abuse imprints, too.

Sponge Bob Douche Pants

Let's travel back from memories of a heartbreaking Halloween birthday to the summer.  June 6th, He was angry that I wouldn't spend the afternoon at the movie theater.  I had been sick the week before and was looking forward to resting at home.  Instead of understanding, he became verbally abusive so I retreated to my bedroom with my 10 year old where we curled on the bed and read books.  Back in the living room, my younger sons were watching cartoons, Sponge Bob, on TV.  He was angry because he wanted to watch something else on TV and wanted to watch it on the TV in our bedroom.  There are 4 TVs in the house, only one of which was in use.  He became angry when I said, "No," and began pounding on the bedroom door, demanding I let him in.  I told my 10 year old everything was all right, that Daddy was "playing silly" and continued to read our book.  Next thing we know, my husband's hand pounds through the door, feels around until it connects with the door knob and unlocks the door.  As frightened and startled as I was, I had to laugh as he looked like Thing from the Adam's Family feeling around blindly as he was.  He let himself in the room and demanded that we let him watch the TV in the bedroom.  He tells me that I will never lock him out of anywhere again.  I tried to make it a joke with my son about how silly Daddy was being, just like the Hulk, busting his hand through the door.  I hope he never knows fear from that incident, only bewilderment at an adult's loss of control. 

Safety Dance!

Anybody reading this, stand up and do a little 3 second happy dance.  Just imagine, if I had found his Internet "friends" while he wasn't thousands of miles away, he would be beating my ass right now.  It's Friday!  He's deployed!  There's no way he can hurt me or the boys!  HAPPY DANCE!!!!!

Pound Puppy

Long ago, He worked with animals.  One of the things I found humorous was that while he was not particularly fond of small children or animals, they adored him.  Babies stopped crying when he held them, though not his own, and stray dogs frequently followed him home.  One of his functions at work was occasionally euthanasia.  When an animal was sick, injured or dangerous, it was "put down" and he performed this function without a thought, without remorse.  Euthanasia was simply another part of the job. 

I've given a lot of thought to this over the past year in light of the Michael Vick story.  When an animal has been so mistreated, it is not fit to reenter society; it is cruel to expect that it can.  It is of benefit to society and to the animal to kill it, to end it's suffering.   You've seen examples in the dog pound, the lank, emaciated, quivering dog huddled in the corner of it's cement enclosure, desperately avoiding human interaction.  While well meaning people mean no harm, approaching such an animal is frightening and often results in growling or biting in self defense.  These dogs are not placable.  They can never again be sent to live with a human companion for fear of harm or litigation.  Maybe a lucky few find peole like Cesar Milan but the amount of dogs he can take in and save is finite.  Google "dog whisperer".  The first few pages are all Milan.  There's one dog whisperer per how many thousands of mistreated, maladjusted dogs?

The same goes for humans.  There's how many therapists available for exactly how many hundreds of thousands of mistreated, maladjusted people?  How many actually seek out or have the means to afford therapy?  Some of these "fighting dogs" cannot reenter society rather they reside along the fringes, watching and never quite fitting in.  Others chose euthanasia.  I hope the number that find "human whisperers" is growing.  I want to believe that like some of Vick's pit bulls, humans can be reformed, reemerging as people worth loving, worth knowing and that they learn to love and value themselves because for certain, their former owners did not! 

I don't have torn ears or a ravaged face from the bloody pits.  My scars are all mostly internal.  I sometimes run my fingers across the knot on my forearm over a break that was never properly set.  When an old fracture in my hip begins to throb, I can accurately foretell a thunderstorm.  Sometimes I'll nervously tangle my fingers in my hair searching out the lump from stitches and rub the tiny, even row like a talisman.  Even if these, and more, were not tangible, the internal scars run deeply leaving me unfit to be around others. 

But NOT my children.  That is different.  The relationship with them is primal, compassionate, protective.  More than mothers who have not seen and felt, I know and can shield them.  But from other adults, other men.  I don't want to be pushed.  And that's what I'm feeling.  I don't want to be someones.  I want to be my own.  I want ownership of my own body, my own thoughts, my own feelings.  It is too soon to be responsible for someone else's.