Looking for Guest Bloggers!

Since falling ill a few months ago with my autoimmune and recent heart issues, I’ve not been as attentive to the blog as I might otherwise be. So I thought it a great idea to showcase the writing of other survivors as guest bloggers, bringing more diversity to the blog, as well as opportunity for survivors who have a little writing talent to show their skills, while helping others come to terms with their experiences with a psychopath, or writings about their experiences throughout recovery.

I’ve received a few posts already from Guest blogger Ruth, whom is a very talented writer. I really appreciate and am very grateful for these efforts as I need to put more effort into keeping my stress levels as low as possible for the time being.

So if you’re interested in writing a post for the blog, please submit a sample of your writing to my email address, which is at the right side of the blog. A sample about your experience would be very helpful in my selection process.

Onward and upward.

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Fear and Courage-By Guest Blogger Ruth


Fear is at the root of the relationship with (my) psychopath. Fear of him, definitely, I felt fear the moment I laid eyes on him….but just as much, it was fear of the fear, meaning, I was terrified that when I saw him, I wouldn’t be able to withstand him. It was fear of my own weakness…which I guess re-routes back to fear of HIM??? And rightly so, and the danger is real. Yet the danger is realer when you have this missing piece of yourself that can’t read the signs, or wrap its head around the truth of who the psychopath is.

Psychopaths are truly dis-integrated. There is no core person there, no unifying essence, unless you call the agenda to power a unifying essence. And maybe you should, because when you see that all the personalities, and all the relationships, share that one thing, power, in common, it’s easier to say, Get Thee Behind Me.

It’s easier to know that what you feel is fear, not love.

I’m reading the fascinating true crime story of Ted Bundy, and his longtime friendship with the true crime writer Ann Rule. they had known each other in Seattle in the 70s before his (known) killing spree began, and the book is about her absolute DISBELIEF for a long, long time that the man she knew could possibly have been the killer. It chronicles her slow coming to grips with the fact that the man she considered her friend was a violent, animalistic, rageful, rapist and murderer. She knew him when they were both counselors at a crisis hotline in Seattle (can you imagine?). They would talk for hours about their personal lives, and she found him to be a patient, soothing and empathetic listener. Many times in her original book, she speaks of loving Ted.

In a foreword that she wrote much later, long after he had been convicted and executed for three of his 36 known rapes, bludgeonings, and killings, her description of her feeling toward him has changed to “haunted”.

It gives a clear picture of the cognitive dissonance we all feel relative to psychopaths we have known and “loved”.

I think the dis-integration of the psychopath notches neatly into our own dis-integration, our own fragmentation. The more we are cut off from ourselves, the more we muffle the signals of fear that telegraph to us the danger we are getting so close to.

I shudder to recall some of the things Dreary (my psychopath) said to me, almost in passing. Once he told me he had in complete detail imagined murdering his ex. Another time he told me he very deliberately took women to their breaking point, he demonstrated by lunging his head and body at me. I pulled back from him, I said, “what did you do when you got them there?”, and he shrugged and said “I walked away”. I inwardly swore to myself that I would never allow him to do that to ME.

Well, he did. I never allowed him to SEE that he did, but he did. Even now, thousands of miles away, at night, I sometimes imagine that his piercing face is outside the dark window pane. I don’t underestimate the danger that thwarting him in his most recent love-bombing attempt may put me in. I will lay very low when in my home city visiting my son.

Sometimes I feel that I’m reaching a place of indifference or neutrality toward him, but when I read a book like The Stranger Beside Me, I see the two faces so clearly juxtaposed, the “nice” seductive face, and the crazed, contemptuous, predatorily focused face. I saw that face once when we were having sex, I saw it in the mirror, he was behind me. I slumped inside with the knowledge that there was no shred of tenderness there, only rapacious greed. And then I realize that I’m not indifferent, I’m inattentive.

Yet, in a different mood, when I’m focused on different memories, I will say that I loved him, and even that I still do. How can I have so many different perceptions of this person? I guess because he presented me with very polished versions of the person I wanted to see. I was a fantasy addict who mostly fantasized about being in love. He was a fantasy monger. If he was greedy, so was I, greedy for my version of events to be real. He toyed with my greed, he poked at my complacency and my vanity. He poked, and discarded and snickered and dumped, until finally I could more clearly connect with the truth, that I was terrified of him.

That’s just real. He’s someone to avoid. And what if I run into him? I will simply live in faith that I am building myself up imperceptibly, am accreting, like a pearl, through loving myself and focusing on my feelings, and that I will respond from my truth.
I choose to walk in faith, not fear.


Fresh from the sordid tale of Ted Bundy and his grandiosity in the face of his own violence against women, his overweening confidence in defending his crimes in court (yes, he fired most of his defense attorneys because he had a very high opinion of himself, and pleaded his own case)… And fresh from the political scene where self-inflated blusterers continue to support and espouse violence against immigrants, the poor, and, as always, women…fresh from these depressing realities,

I watched The King’s Speech. This is the true story of King George the Sixth, known as Bertie to his family, father of present day Queen Elizabeth of England. This movie shows beautifully how true leadership is born of CONSCIENCE, and of Feeling. Bertie was a stammerer.

He could barely speak in public. He was traumatized by the repressive royal environment he grew up in, and the unmerciful teasing of his brothers and others. With the help of his speech therapist and more importantly, his FRIEND, Lionel Logue, he was able to rise to the occasion of his kingship. He didn’t want to be the king. He became king because his brother Edward abdicated in order to marry Wallace Simpson, an American divorcee, unthinkable to British royal mores at the time.

World War Two was coming to England at the moment of his coronation. Bertie, King George, terrified, was invested with the responsibility of leading his nation into that war, alongside Winston Churchill and Neville Chamberlain. And he had an overwhelming fear of speaking. But with the support of his friend Lionel, and his wife, he DID it. He gave the speech, steady though halting, that invested his nation with the courage to rise to the challenge, to rise up against the “primitive principle that Might equals Right.” It’s a very moving movie, and a true story.

I took with me the message that it is those of us blessed with conscience, with feeling, with fear, who are the true leaders of our lives, and of the future. It is NOT the glib, confident, smooth talkers who Want What They Want When They Want It.

It IS our vulnerability that makes us strong, and that gives us the fiber to stand against evil in whatever form we encounter it. I took great heart from this movie, I encourage all of us to watch it with this perspective.

Standing up for our own truth doesn’t always look swank, or smooth, or cool, or confident. It doesn’t have to. It can be slow, doubtful, tenuous, vulnerable. But when we FEEL what is true for ourselves, we can’t be overcome, we can’t be hurt, even if we are killed. Courage is born only of feeling and of perseverance. It bears NO resemblance to the reckless bravado and dominating spirit of the psychopath.

The more we separate ourselves from the psychopathic energies in our lives, the more we can approach the frightened, traumatized, tender cores of ourselves, and in so doing, find what is true in ourselves, and stand up, and speak.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

I want to wish all survivors a very Happy Thanksgiving today.

But for those of you who are still reeling from a break up, have a pathological family that is too toxic to spend time with, even with all your sadness, I pray that at least you have a moment today of peace in that you’re free of your abusers, free from harm, free to learn about yourself, to embrace who you are.

I know that for many, the holidays are particularly lonely. I’ll be thinking of you today. Know that somewhere out there, someone cares and is praying for your peace and strength.

Onward and upward.

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A Message To Adult Children Of Psychopath

I’ve sometimes been reluctant to share the grieving I feel during the holidays and with birthdays this time of year when I miss my pathological family.

I’ve had no contact for a very long time now with them, years now. Having a pathological family background and parent (s) is very difficult to put into words because there were so many dynamics, so much abuse, so much trauma, that trying to discern the tactics that were experienced in that family and as a child, from a child’s perspective is really difficult and painful all by itself. It’s hard to imagine that kind evil out of parent unless you’ve experienced it.

One of the things I appreciate so much about my blog, is the writing I’ve done about the pathological parent. So many suffer in silence because there isn’t a lot written out there about it, little to nothing to support these survivors. It is dramatically different to have a pathological family, then it is to have had a romantic relationship with a psychopath. It’s very traumatic and even though I’ve healed a lot, the scars remain and I never, ever forget it. With all the emails I receive from adult survivors, they are of my favorites. There is so much validation in knowing you’re not alone. I hope those of you who read feel that you’re getting validation too.

Having said that I’d like to say thank you for the kind words and birthday wishes. I’d also like thank you to the few of you who sent me donations. My son just got a job, and it’s going to take awhile to get us back on our feet, but we would not have a Thanksgiving dinner this year were it not for you and I am very grateful for that.

I think, as adult children we do the best we can with what we have, especially through the holidays, which again, can be a very difficult time for many of us. Please feel free to comment or share your stories. Sometimes just writing them out helps a lot. This blog is a place to support one another, or at least that’s what I’d hoped. Please know that  sharing about your pain through the holidays will be respected and validated here. Your feelings will not be pathologized.  And if you need more support, please write me personally.

I’m still working on answering emails and I’m very far behind, but have to be very mindful of my health right now. I get to comments as soon as I’m able, although not everyday lately. If you don’t see your comment posted just know that it will be within a few days, if not sooner.

Onward and upward!Rose Kennedy quote

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When I Miss My Pathological Family Most:The Holiday Heartbreak

I don’t do well at this time of year. Today is my birthday and every stinkin year, I think about my sperm donor and my siblings. I’ve been sorta stalking my brother’s FB page. He is newly married, his wife seems lovely. And she’s quite beautiful but in a natural way. His meme’s reflect that of someone who is extremely liberal minded. That surprises me.

I remember when I was little and would grab his little pudgy hands and drag him all over the place. . .

I’ve always loved my brother. The cruelty with which he and my sister hurt me, trained well by both my parents in their role as torturers and mine as scapegoat were apparent long before it came time to dump me out of my mother’s will, something that still hurts, although I don’t focus on it daily, but it was the defining moment when I knew, undoubtedly, that love was missing out of them. But it’s birthdays, theirs, mine, Christmas and Thanksgiving….that I can’t help but miss them or think about them. Yesterday, I really wanted to write my brother a message. I did so around Christmas two years ago and no response. I was heartbroken. I know that if I wrote a message, I’d be heartbroken again.

I know it’s not safe for me to contact them and harm would be imminent. It stops me every time I try.  My role as scapegoat in the family would automatically resume. But if my brother is making all of these changes, and they are good and healthy for him, I’m happy about that, because all he writes now, is about love, compassion and care. I just wish for one minute, just ONE minute, that through all of this change, a light would go on in his head that he has a big sister that loves him still and that maybe he will think of me one day and write. Our birthday’s are a month apart, on the exact same day. We are eleven months apart in age.
I’ve not had a decent birthday in a very long time. There is always sadness and missing. My birthday isn’t about a celebration of a life brought into the world, but more a reminder of how alone I am and feel in it, without my family and the trauma associated with them, that is always beneath the surface. This is where having a pathological parent and a sibling or two, is the hardest. I wish they loved and supported me. They know nothing of my ill health, a recent heart attack. . . they don’t know me at all. They don’t know my beautiful children or grandchildren they have never met. But I wish they did, I wish they wanted too, because my heart is filled with love for them. I would forgive them if they asked. Maybe even if they didn’t. This is just so hard this time of year. So very hard.
My family is my children and grandchildren, and my world revolves around them, but I see others around me who have big families…and they all love each other. A thousand times I close my eyes and visualize what that must be like, feel like. . .

Reality is so harsh and painful sometimes…

Onward and Upward…

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How I Learned About Psychopaths- By: Guest Blogger Ruth

I first started to get the inkling that I was with someone who didn’t care, who spoke of being empty. I’m trying to remember how I stumbled across the notion of ‘psychopath’. I had heard Dreary say with a shrug and through his own lips: “I want what I want when I want it”. He had reeled me in and spit me out so many times, large and small, the events were like fractals of the same pattern.

I had witnessed, finally,  the full depth and ‘shatteredness’ of my pain, because I had been unable to hide it from a mutual friend. It was summer, it was a visit to her vacation home, she was a wealthy woman. She was newly aflutter about him, she had had a visit from him and she was describing his handsomeness, his story telling, his jolliness, how fun he was, how free, how handsome (again), how stylish, and all of this after knowing well that we weren’t involved any more, and that I was trying to get over him. She was married to the contractor that Dreary had been climbing the ladder with for years. I knew that he had been angling to get closer to this woman, and that I was a stepping stone to that. I knew all this semi-incoherently.

Anyway, this was taking place out on the island at their weekend home. I had no car, I had walked on the ferry, she was babbling on and on about him. Also, in months previous, I had been a visitor at this house with Dreary. . . and suddenly this catastrophic pain welled up in me, and with all the composure I could muster, I asked her if she could please take me back to the ferry, that it was too painful for me to be there, and I was unable to control my crying.

She pulled her head back and looked at me, eyes popping, almost laughing sardonically.  “What?!” and then  “No, I don’t believe it,” she said. “You’re stronger than this,I don’t believe it!” Her response was so shocking that I stumbled on, and ended up staying the night. But I knew then and there that my friendship with this woman was over. She was now his advocate, he had groomed her into allegiance. The day after that trip to the island was the last time I had contact with Dreary, almost…he made an attempt six months ago. . .

That was two August’s ago. Faintly, in the back of my mind, I knew I was free falling. I very dimly sensed that my life was spinning out of control. I stopped being able to find painting work. I functioned, but had lost my ability to make money. I was barely surviving, though still numb to the enormous grief gnawing at my heels. Eventually, I had the light bulb desperate revelation that I could go home and take care of Mom for a couple of months, till I got back on my feet. Well, it’s been a year now. I couldn’t drive back there again.

I started to find comfort in writings on the topic of psychopathy. I read the “Mask of Sanity”-brilliant! I went to websites like psychopath free, cassiopaea, aftermath, psychopaths and love, etc. I found these helpful, and I commented on a few posts,but something was missing for me on most of these pages. It tended to be all about the evil motherfucker who had snuck up on you and done terrible things to you, you poor baby, you sweet and loving and caring dear baby, BAD psychopath, EVIL psychopath and so mean to kind, empathic YOU…Catch em and kill em!! Kind of, not entirely, but that was the impression I got. When I left comments I would talk about my own collusion in the dynamic with my Dreary, my own agenda and I would get very few likes, know what I mean? It was the same sort of us versus them talk that I see every day in politics and daily life.

Aren’t we more than just predators and prey? I wondered…

And then I found the Ability to Love blog. Here, finally, was a voice I could resonate with on a deeper level. On a level that asks all of us to be accountable for ourselves. Here was a voice that held compassion for all the moments that make up our relationships with all people, not only the disordered ones. Here was someone who helped me see what had happened in my LIFE, not just with a man. No punches pulled on the topic of the disorder, plenty of truth and clear talking about the futility of trying to be with a non conscience, non remorse non empathy human, but she always asked us to look at ourselves. With compassion.

Truly, I feel like Kelli is the one voice that gave me the strength to endure the emptiness that followed, to begin to integrate the wildly flip flopping feelings and perceptions I had about my Dreary. One day I was hard and done, what a JERK and the next I was sobbing wildly like Adele H, ready to follow him anywhere, yearn yearn. In Kelli’s writing I found room, and wisdom, and explanations for things that baffled me, like the one sure sign that you’re dealing with a disordered one, Exploitation, Check! She kept turning the light bulbs on for me, she kept helping me sleuth it out, and she never let me forget for one moment that what I was really sleuthing out with was/is me.

She reminds us over and over that it will not be easy.
She reminds us, onward and upward.
She reminds us, ruminate for a while, and you will, but it’s not about THEM.
She speaks the same truth as the great masters: physician, heal THYSELF.
She puts our personal emotional battles into a social and political context.
She has discerned, rightly, that we live in a world now dominated by a psychopathic perspective. We have come to expect nothing less than abuse against the vulnerable by the powerful, and we define ourselves accordingly.
She asks to examine this, and change it.
She is sharing a deeply radical message.
I am eternally grateful to this woman.

Right now, Kelli is ill and under huge financial stress. She lives with the continual threat of losing everything, and is learning scary new things about her physical condition, which makes it impossible for her to work….our gain, because she gives so much to us instead.

I look around and see all kinds of donation websites. Crowd funding is one of the ways we can actually live democracy. It’s a beautiful thing, I was able to manufacture my creative game because of Kickstarter, when no bank would lend me money, since you have to have money. to receive it in our rigged system of exchange. With crowd funding, I was able to receive the support of people who believed in what I was doing.

I believe in Kelli. I see her as one of the more courageous humans I have encountered. It’s no small thing to be self-accountable when you have been hurt. Let alone compassionate. It is almost never that you find someone who can express her anger without being ruled by it, who does not demonize the other, and who continues to have concern and energy and time for others who are suffering, even while she herself is exhausted and suffering too.

You guys, let’s create a new world, and help our helper. This is what community means. I know what it is to not have five extra bucks…and no pressure, I know Kelli would not appreciate any pressure being put on ANY of us, she knows we have pressure enough from our grief in this life….but if you happen to have five or ten extra bucks, please send it her way…let’s support this girl who has given so much to us.

We don’t need a crowd funding website, just go to her paypal link, and send.

I knew I couldn’t write anything else till I said this, so thank you, and I’m SO glad to be here, and that’s because of Kelli too.


**Note from blog owner: I’ve received a few beautifully written emails from Ruth in her feeling of gratefulness at having found the blog. When I first read this post she wanted me to post as my guest blogger this morning and when she began to speak of that gratefulness again in her post, I became very uncomfortable. . .

I asked myself why, but beforehand, I wrote to her and let her know I felt uncomfortable with the ‘glad handing’. That’s the term I used. But I realized after I wrote it and with her response, that I may have hurt her feelings. And this is never, ever my intention with any survivor, but it has happened.  I’m human and I embrace my humanity, warts and all. It isn’t always pleasant, it isn’t always about gratefulness, happiness, joy, peace, as my life is often filled with pain, unfinished healing, anguish, frustration, due to poverty and illness. But sometimes I just say the wrong thing.

I share my humanity openly, even while some may reject all of that ‘negativity’ as somehow pathological. Society tends to pathologize negative, yet very human emotion. And this is no less than for every survivor who is suffering in the aftermath of a psychopath or after discovery that that survivor’s family is pathological. Many people in society do not yet understand the psychopath or pathological dynamics that are playing out before their very eyes, especially within their own governmental systems and within society. How could they possibly understand YOUR pain or what happened to you? Oftentimes, a survivor will accept, eventually, that this conscienceless soul was in their lives, but not see it on a grander scale.

Anyway, in being human, I’ve not always been a survivor’s ‘favorite’ guidance, for all of us will require a fit that matches something familiar to ourselves. How one survivor heals, and who is part of that process is very much individualized. Something I encourage and respect. I’ve also had survivor’s very angry at me, for sometimes the truth about the psychopath and what it’s showing them about themselves is too frightening, too scary, or they are just not ready yet. Or I’ve not answered that email fast enough and they are hurting and want the answers right now!

I’m not a guru, a spiritual leader or spiritual guide. I’m not a teacher, but simply another survivor walking with all of you on the path, some are ahead, some are behind and yet others walk with me. I hear from survivors who need help many times a day to get through the initial ‘withdrawal’ phase in the addiction to the psychopath, but usually when they ‘get’ it, I don’t hear from them again. I know I’m there for a reason and maybe not even a season, but for me, it is giving back without expectation. On occasion, I’ll hear from a survivor several months out, only to hear that they are growing and thriving. I appreciate those notes more than anything else.

I’ve been walking a very scary, very dark path of uncertainty, with a lot of poverty and a lot of illness. With everything I’ve been through in my life with psychopaths, I feel angry sometimes that I appear to be in a place where I’m feeling almost punished. But I know that my faith is strong, that God is real FOR ME and that there will come an answer. And if not, I’ve found a home of my own creating, to share, to care and to provide as many answers and as much compassion as I can as a result of my experiences.

A beautiful quote by Carl Jung, “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”

And it is so very true. In reality it is survivors that truly do all the work. I’m merely a guide on their journey, someone they meet along the way….but ultimately, the WORK is up to them, as are the accolades they deserve in doing so when that work moves to completion, while another effort at growth begins . It’s YOU that deserve the gratefulness that is given to me in appreciation, because while I can support and provide answers, it’s ultimately up to you to decide whether or not you’re willing to do the ground work, build a new foundation, make changes. The psychopath is merely a reflection of the things we need to change within. What we need to work on. There is nothing like a relationship with the disordered that will show you just how beautiful you are and can be, while also handing you your darkness as a head on a silver platter, doused in pain and if you’ve found me here,  I’m just glad I was there on the path, to shed a little light, so you can walk the rest of the way….

Thank you for your beautiful note of gratitude, Ruth, and your giving of yourself to others who have not yet found their voices.

Onward and Upward.

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Integrity, Integrity. . . What Is It? – By Ruth, Guest Blogger

My teacher Sylvia told me years ago, when I was maybe fifty, that I was so very fragmented, and this was a shock to me, because by then I was a longtime mother, and thought I knew what I wanted, and had a spiritual practice: In other words, I thought I was on the plus side of healing, yet here she was telling me that I was fragmented, the most unhealed thing to be and she could see this, she could see my energy. I was bummed and perplexed, at least part of me was, because there was a part that still felt accomplished and that in fact, was totally clueless as to my real state.

Time passed, I was past my mid fifties, yet I felt sexual and romantic like I was thirty. I had let go of the father of my son, I had fallen in love with my teacher’s son, to the shock and wonder of our group. Our teacher was very powerful and unflinching. Everyone was scared of her because she had laser focus, unerring, super-conscious vision, and no fear of busting your ego. Yet, I desired him with the full extent of the part of me that could feel desire, and was eventually forced by him and by my group of witnesses, all deeply trusted (yet not), to give up on that fantasy. Such pain and mourning and anxiety, I lost fifteen or so pounds, lived with burning pain and endless crying for six months.I thought I was learning about letting go. I started to feel a bleak kind of acceptance that brought some serenity…

And then I met the man (or was it the creature?) who would tear me limb from limb while filling me with the ecstasy of fantasy fulfilled. The man who would feel to me like the warm velvet connection of mamamama, and would patiently,  leisurely, languidly and sensually fill my senses up, open me to tenderness and then, repeatedly, flip me off contemptuously, “Oh I was just talkin smack”…

Here was my ultimate teacher, here was my integrator.

I met him at the paint store. There he was across the sales area at the opposite counter, eyeing me, head tilted to the side and dark eyes watching me sidelong. I was picking up an order for a job, and so was he. I always admire a person (who like me) can make the work uniform stand out, be natty. And he did, he had a little wool vest, form fitting, and a cool stocking cap that framed his very exotic, aquiline, cat-like and penetrating face. I was instantly afraid and captivated. He sauntered over. And so it began. . .

Integrity: From Latin in- which means ‘not’ or “non’. An old Italian tangere from the proto-Indo-European tag which means ‘touch’. So, untouched, therefore ‘whole’…(hmmm, sounds a bit like they were referring to the female there somewhat)

I’ve certainly been touched and slammed and blown apart. I’m putting the pieces back together, or more rightly, looking for the voice that speaks for all the parts of me. The okay, untouched and constant essence of me that knows all the parts and says, “Okay, there you are.” It’s not a defensive thing. It has no fear. Boundaries might not even apply to it, because it goes everywhere, sees everything. But it understands that boundaries do apply to the full package, here in 3D.

It might be that only the parts that are kept out of sight are those that can be ‘touched’ or damaged. Maybe this is what becoming conscious is about. Know thyself means know it all. Can I know it all about myself?

I think I’ve gotten to a place where I know the stuff that for so long I was too afraid to know. I know where I’m broken, I go into the break, and in the raw meat of that broken place, I am finding my wholeness, slowly and over time.

But you have to really be willing to experience the broken place, to reach wholeness and so often I disassociate from that. I go to drugs or fantasy or entrancement with some more powerful force. Every time I go back to entrancement I lose my integrity. And I actually loved the state of entrancement and surrender so much that I didn’t know I was surrendering to something malicious, something calculated. There were times when I didn’t even care if it was. I was enslaved and I knew it, and it was what I wanted. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him for long.

Except he kept ripping me awake!

So I have been very susceptible to anyone who could see what I didn’t want to see in myself. I was there for the taking. I was out of touch and thus touchable, and not in a good way…

All my life there has been a behind the scenes agenda toward the unfiltered experience. I have always had an aversion to buffers and bubbles, even when I was safely ensconced, and especially then. I could be seen as reckless, and I am. I have found myself in trouble and experienced the desperate craven wretch, scrambling for help without pride, the unconscious panicked lurch toward any safe place. Courage and cowardice are both familiar to me and I accept them both in myself. I think both are conditions that all we humans share given the appropriate goads. We can all imagine being refugees, exiles, rejects, failures, cowards, and assholes. And if we’re living authentically, we sometimes are any of these things.

I think there was an irresistible attraction to the danger I sensed in the person who became my lover and colleague, and willing screen for my fantasies of
Misunderstood artist…
Merry prankster
Unsupported valiant survivor
Unrepentant hedonist
Free agent
Sexual god
What a package!!

What I neglected to notice was my own dependency upon these fantasies not being exposed as fantasies! So when I glimpsed contempt or cruelty toward myself from this person, I glimpsed the yawning void of my own defenselessness. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”, he drawled one night after some ‘great sex’. I was madly in love with him, which he knew. Without my attractive tale of mutually shared adventure, I was alone in a bleak void. This was a void that I have carried with me my whole life, and my shameless cruel pirate, ripped away all my buffers and bubbles against it and left me to sink or swim. Oh, and then randomly changed his mind or got a fresh urge to mess around…but that was later. . .

All my life I knew I had unfinished business in myself. I knew I had been hurt and had been unable to defend myself. The most specific and conscious instance of that was third and fourth grade bullying., but this was just an extension of the total submission I had to have vis a vis MOM, who was ‘unconscious’ and who thought she was a great mom. Not that she ever had time to spend with us. She was so alluring, just over there. She was inaccessible, but she wanted total access to me, but only when she wanted it.

I remember the moment I discovered I could make my mother laugh, and how important that knowledge became as a safety mechanism. As a way to prevent access. My mother always wanted access to me. Why? I’m not sure, but I needed to keep her out because she had no restraint and blew all my doors on a regular basis. No privacy. Do this. Do that. Be seen and not heard. Modulate your voice. Bedtime. Get up. Eat your supper. Lights out. Lights on. Dress us all the same. Do as I say. Because I said so. The house had to be ordered just as she liked it, everywhere, all the time. Things were as she wanted them, everywhere, all the time. She had no capacity for self reflection, and a ferocious will, and an enormous supply of energy, which she expected us to keep up with. And when we didn’t we were too sensitive and needed to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. I learned to deeply conceal myself. I couldn’t reveal to her that I was keeping her out, or she would redouble her efforts. She thought she had access, but she didn’t…

She would say, “I want you to be happy.” Did you ever take a moment to slow down and ask me what might constitute happiness for me? Or intuit it? No, you wanted me to be happy so that you didn’t have to concern yourself with me. I was left all alone to be in some way, ‘happy’, so she could fancy that she cared deeply, when the truth was she cared not at all. Whether I did well in school, whether or what I was learning, who did this or that to me, who hurt my feelings, who was my friend. .  .Oh, but she would pour on the good mommy for the friends, to be sure.

Now I live again with her, she has Alzheimers, and I’m grateful to have had this place and a purpose to come to to heal my shattered and devastated self, yet I was coming back to the very place where, at least in this lifetime, the shattering began. And I tell her now, “You have no idea about other people and their needs.” She says, “I’m sorry”, while staring balefully out with her black eyes under her brows. I say, “Mom, you can’t tell me what to do any more, I’m 61.” And she says, “I’m your MOTHER!” or  “You’re my DAUGHTER!”, interchangeably, as if this relationship is ample cause for her total control. She will never change now. There will never be a connection, or learning, it’s too late for her..

So this is where my integrity went, as an infant. I was broken down early. Yes. I do know it was her, I have seen her eyes in the astral place where the truth images burn brighter, her black eyes looking at me with such hostility and unwelcoming when I was a baby needing connection. She found the needs of others annoying even then. She called me bad. I used to rock myself in my crib, and rhythmically bang my head against the headboard, to pass the empty time when she wouldn’t come. Or she would make a show of walking down the hall to manipulate my crying, and hearing me get quiet because I heard her coming, she would loudly walk away to start me up again. It was a game for her. She told me with glee how she use to do this.

She was damaged goods. She has her own sad story. Was she a Narcissist? I don’t know. She was fearless, she did what she wanted when she wanted, yet she obeyed the rules of society, at least it seemed that she did. She was a control freak. She buried all hedonism she might have had. And her house reflected and still reflects the ‘pleasurelessness’ that she opted for. Cold. Straight back and un-comfy chairs. Turn the heat down. “Did you goose the heat again?!”

I was compliant, what else could I be? I was hyper sensitive. I loved touch and cuddling, and I got these from my daddy.  He would sit with me, nursing his drink and rubbing my back. How far did he go with that? Why was I aware of sexual feelings as a small child? I don’t know.

It seems at the moment that what is integral to me, what my state of integrity is, is a very muted, dimmed down thing. I’m prone to spells of sadness and irritation, and the rest of the time is a steady state of …nothing much. My intense sexual appetite has withdrawn. The last time I tried to give myself an orgasm, I gave up after an hour. It would rise, and then it would sort of shrug and melt away into myself. I’m getting older.

I am letting go of many of the ‘youthful’ pieces of my fantasy of myself. I’m working, with the help of my therapist, on trusting my feelings, and saying “No” to the childish, needy demands of my Mom (when no is what I feel). And just doing my job, which is to be here, be present, as myself with my Mom. I don’t have to be the perfect caregiver. I don’t have to be funny, or entertaining, or particularly nice. I just have to be here, because I have committed to being here, and cook, and check her meds, and drive her places. It’s hard sometimes, because I feel guilty if I don’t give her what she wants. But my new mantra is, There is room for ME.

Yeah, youth, it’s going, going and I see my mother, at 87, look in the mirror and exclaim with indignation, “I look so OLD!” and I say, “Well, you’re 87, what do you expect?” But I can see how age creeps up on you, and if your thing is denial (hers), you’ll disregard the facts.

My thing is, split off into fantasy, which is a lot like denial, only it adds elaborate imagination into the mix. My sister went all the way along that line into psychosis. And my third sister is more openly raging and needy. I think you do whatever your nervous system does most easily to defend itself but ultimately, there is no defense against aging and death, we all go there.

In my extended youthful phase, all the way through my fifties, I was many things, a Mom, a portrait painter, a singer-songwriter-guitar player, a game inventor and entrepreneur, a ‘sexy woman’, a spiritual student, and house painter. Now, almost all of that has fallen away, fallen into this dim trough that I live on the embankment of these days. My game is shelved. I have no desire to play or to sing. I have left my son 3000 miles behind, because I had to leave my ex behind. I have been rejected by one of my spiritual friends because I wandered off from the orthodoxy of our practices. The only thing that consistently remains is that I paint houses for money. All my ‘talents’ are superficial to me in a way, they are easy, I do things well, but right now I don’t need to do any of them.

I just watched Good Will Hunting last night, and I could relate to Will, the brilliant mathematician, in this way, that it was so easy, and everybody said, “Oh, wow, you’re so brilliant, don’t waste your brilliant talents!” and he’s like, “What if I don’t want to….?” and his job for himself was to find out what he wanted, and that is true for me too. I’m determined to let it all go, if it’s not pulsing in me, see what remains, and what will grow. It’s very, very sad sometimes.

But when you’ve spent your life being what other people wanted you to be, and creating starring roles for yourself in your made-up movie of the moment and then to be been crushed, it’s a great opportunity to start from scratch. And scratch is where I am now, brought low by an unscrupulous person, who took advantage of my reckless surrender, and my hoped-for fictional account and my affection. I can see now that it was my soul’s own search for the unfiltered truth that brought me here. He was just a tool... haha…

Not to minimize his destructive capacity and intentions. But I don’t want to demonize him. That obscures the truth of the matter, and makes me a victim, which I am not, however many times I lay shattered. And I loved him, I think I always will.

I’m so happy to have this opportunity to report from the dimness. I have faith that the light of my own soul will grow, as long as I stay true to my self. I know that temptation to oblivion is still there to fantasies of love, fantasies of him ‘suddenly knowing’ it was love all along. He has already tested the waters with me on that one, with his words: “I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, but not a lot of love…” etc. I am so grateful to Kelli for courageously talking in depth about all the aspects and angles and nuances of being a person who loves someone who cannot care, someone who also sees with crystalline clarity all the ways we choose to be blind about them because we don’t feel who we are. That’s my job now, just to feel who I am.

Thank you.


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Blog Update

I want to apologize for not being more interactive, not getting to comments until now for approval and my greatest apologies to those who have written to me and are still waiting a response.

I’ve had additional medical problems added to my autoimmune that are heart related. I’ve been very sick and am not to add more stress to my heart right now than I’ve had.

I do answer every email, but it will take me a bit longer to get back to everyone. I have a survivor whom I think is very talented and I’ve asked her to Guest blog for me, so as to keep up the writing here, that I hope will continue to help survivors while enduring heartache and questions about their abusers.

Please feel free to continue commenting. Every survivor’s comment reaches another and is critical to my blog in helping each survivor get through their ordeal.

For now, I’ve only approved the comments and answered only one. I’ll work on at least approving comments for the time being, as chronic fatigue with this heart issue has had me flat and doing only a little bit at a time.

Please know I do care and am concerned for every one of you. Again, I will get to your emails, but I’m quite back logged so it may be awhile before yours is answered, but I guarantee that it will be.

Keep up the good work in your lives and the work your doing on yourselves. It may not always be a fun journey, but it is one worth taking.

Onward and upward.

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Free Is a Very Good Price! -Support Services.

  Just a quick note to survivors who are writing to me.

I’ve been receiving A LOT of mail as I provide support for free.

These emails are anywhere between 10-25 pages long. It takes me a long time to read them, absorb the information and then thoughtfully respond and with longer emails, I go paragraph by paragraph. It is VERY important to me to ‘get it right’ when reading my mail, and each survivor deserves that time in consideration with the information they are entrusting to me.

If I don’t get back to you immediately, PLEASE do not send another email. Know that it’s first come, first serve. I have several survivors that I’m working with on a repetitive basis. Those cases I work on first, before entering into the task to read new mail. I promise you I WILL get to you, but if you send a second, it can become a bit confusing to me. I realize that survivors are sometimes very upset and wanting answers now. Like, right now. I do understand this and you’re not alone in waiting, but the more emails, the longer it takes.

Secondly, while services here are free to any survivor who needs assistance, if you can afford a donation, even a small one, I’m forever grateful. Because I’m disabled, I do not have an income and deal with several different illnesses and am just now pulling out of a very nasty acute autoimmune. My illnesses, PTSD and depression have a monumental impact on my life. Please know that it takes me longer to get to everyone because of these issues, but I guarantee that I will!

But no one will ever be turned away. I keep in mind that when I was searching for answers, I was blessed by someone who would provide that guidance for free, other than my therapist that is, something I also highly encourage every survivor to locate for themselves, if it’s at all possible, yet I understand the value of guidance when it’s so desperately needed and many people are experiencing financial struggles today.

Again, please be patient and I will get to you. I want to provide the best support possible in every situation where survivors are concerned.

Thank you so much for your patience.

Onward and upward!


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Will I Ever Escape Psychopaths?

Lately, I’ve been struggling a lot with physical health issues. I have two autoimmune disorders that tend to wreak a lot of havoc with me, Lupus and Hashimoto’s Disease. Presently, my Hashimoto’s is in acute phase. This is an autoimmune disorder of the thyroid gland. I never know what’s going to set it off or when. The random nature of this illness is enough to get the triggers going for me, exacerbating my PTSD, as well as depression that I have with it.

And when you’re living in abject poverty, waiting for an answer on a social security claim to finish processing, it is nothing less than a living hell. Stress can often trigger my autoimmune. Well, not knowing if you’re going to be on the streets, month after month, is enough to make anyone lose their ability to think straight. But what I find so stressful about all of this, is not just my illness or my poverty, but what I have to do to survive it.

Enter political psychopathy. I’m very politically active. I spend time on political pages, educating others about psychopathy. If there is anything that creates more triggers for me, it’s this. Yet, like a rubber necker on the freeway, I find myself immersed, motivated to help people understand how their hate, fear, religious zealousness, empathy, poverty, money, anything and everything can and will be used by pathological politicians to exploit the masses, to divide, to triangulate. Triangulation is one of the psychopath’s favorite games/tactics. And in this country, it works.

Not too long ago, there was an article on one of my political pages about Mitch McConnell and his scapegoating of food stamp recipients. His ‘belief’ (exploitation of wealthy and white angst over the belief that the majority of their taxes go to those in poverty–they don’t), that food stamp recipients are ‘doing too good’, is a not only one of the biggest pathological lies told by those in power, but is also a projection. For it is these members of Congress that are doing ‘too good’ on tax payer dollars, and while many people don’t consider this to be a problem, most don’t recognize projection or exploitation either. it is this kind of exploitative scapegoating that allows power and money to co-exist in a way that American’s are so busy pointing fingers at one another, those in power continue to rip them off with wild abandon.

When I see these kinds of articles, I’m immediately outraged. It is a huge trigger for me because of my circumstances. When people begin to comment about these articles on the Facebook pages that highlight them, I feel even more angry. The ignorance, willful or not, stereotypes, false narratives, and outright mimicry of exploiters words, has me going from anger to depression. I feel hopeless. I feel hurt. I feel vulnerable and used. I feel sabotaged. But more so than anything else, I feel completely voiceless amid all the societal pathological noise. . .

Our government, politics, corporations, wall street and banks are full of these psychopaths. With the exception of very few, most of our elected officials are living high off the hog of tax payer money, while working for the powerful entities that they serve. None of them include most of us. Our system has been corrupt for so long, pathological behavior and tactics having become the ‘norm’ that American’s have ‘adjusted’ to it, making our society a profoundly sick one. It is not possible to be around psychopaths and not be affected by their disorder. It doesn’t matter if it’s a partner, a parent, a child or a politician, all will be affected.

Pathological means extremes. Hatred, by itself, is pathological. Psychopaths are all about extremes. It shows up in their behavior and tactics, and it is visited upon all of those closest to them, but it’s also visited upon an entire nation. Psychopaths are power addicts and unregulated capitalism = psychopathy. It attracts the disorder like moths to a flame. It’s the power that they crave, it’s the addiction to that power that is insatiable, therefore dangerous if you’re a target. What comes with this power when discussing government and politics is profit. Psychopaths love having dollar signs attached to their names. Because people in our society have been indoctrinated to believe that status = worth, it is easy to understand how psychopath’s exploit this in society, making people believe that they have so much power, always attached to a dollar amount, that we are helpless to do anything about changing what is really an imbalance of power, and what is in reality, with economic injustice/inequality from which all fiscal and social ills and unrest derive.

What helps them to get away with this, is what helps them get away with it in their personal relationships too. The psychopath exploits his victims. He strategically and methodically extrapolates their vulnerabilities for his own selfish purpose. Once he figures out what the victim’s vulnerabilities are, he goes in for the kill, aka love bombing (manipulation phase), he makes the victim believe that he is more than ‘just on her side’ but that the two of them together are ascended on high, reaching a point of soul mate or star status. Once the victim is convinced that the psychopath is the Knight in Shining Armor she’s been waiting for and she is secured within the relationship, the psychopath begins the deprivation and sabotage phase, where throughout the relationship, the psychopath, knowing the victim’s vulnerabilities well, will work to deprive her of the things that mean the most to her. From sex to birthday presents, the psychopath will never give her exactly what she wants. But whatever it is that he deprives her of, it is surely something extraordinarily meaningful and is directly tied to her vulnerabilities that he exploited in the beginning. This deprivation is extremely painful to the victim, who cannot understand what happened to her Knight in Shining Armor, who slowly appears to be her arch enemy. He deliberately sabotages her, creates reactions in her through deprivation that empowers the psychopath more. Her pain, her hurt, is his reward system. It’s during this time, after the honeymoon phase is over that the psychopath is capable of various forms of abuse, emotional, physical, sexual, spiritual. . .

Depending on how long this lasts is variable upon how long the victim will tolerate the abuse or how long before the psychopath discards her, at which time the smear campaign is in full swing.  Everything about her, including her vulnerabilities, her deepest secrets shared with him, the most intimate parts of her psychology will be exploited to justify the psychopath’s devastation and harm, bringing the now survivor to her knees. Every bit of this relationship, from beginning to end is extreme.

This is how it is with psychopaths in power too. Pathological politicians exploit vulnerabilities in others, working to triangulate them so that the psychopath can justify a level of depravity that very few are privy too and this is seen with the outcome of economic injustice/inequality in this country. It matters not to the victims of this exploitation, because hate and pathological fear, religious zealousness, etc, bring forth powerful emotions that distract from the predatory exploiter and what he is really doing behind their backs. The flames of hatred, of fear, are fanned easily by politicians who, in reality do not care at all for the victims they exploit. They could care less about racism. They could care less about people in poverty. They could care less about the religious extremists and their cause, but it is interesting that these populations believe that they do. Such as it is with victims of psychopaths, for those who are full of hatred, rage and fear, are also vulnerable to those in power, and if and when they discover the level of betrayal that they’ve experienced, it will be similar to victims of psychopaths in personal relationships.

To shed some light on how this exploitation by psychopaths in power works:  When Mitch McConnell said that he would make Obama a one term President, he was not looking at the color of his skin. McConnell, a predatory exploiter, was looking at prime opportunity to exploit racists in society to achieve a whole new level of power in accelerating an agenda that contained even more power, as well as more profit. ‘Follow the money’ rings so true in why government and politics, and powerful entities such as corporations, banks, wall street and assorted other wealthy individuals, will say or do anything to divide, triangulate, deprive, sabotage and scapegoat major groups in society that are already marginalized, while exploiting and appealing to pathological people in society to hate the marginalized even more. What has happened with all of this is an alarming rise in economic injustice/inequality, something that walks hand in hand with racial inequality, regressive social policy, fiscal deprivation and sabotage, while scapegoating the very victims who suffer on a daily basis because of it. Psychopaths in power have been able to enrich themselves, while we’ve looked the other way, distracted by hate and fear.

This wasn’t a spontaneous event. Both Republicans and Democrats have contributed to economic injustice/inequality over the last thirty years since ‘trickle down’ was initiated, followed by the welfare queen narrative to justify the depravity behind it. While I could go into greater detail in how pathological power and profit motive has evolved over the years, I suffer a great deal of cognitive dissonance in doing so, for the scapegoating of those in poverty, those of color, those of differing religions, those who are LGBT, those who are disabled, etc, serves a purpose for those who should be working for us, but who are more blatant and ruthless now more than ever, in their pathological desire to maintain and to get more power, more profit. Dare I say that the masks are beginning to fall off. . .

But this ‘feeling’ around me of intense hatred for various groups of people, has me feeling very much like it did when I was living in my pathological childhood home. I was the scapegoat of the family. My siblings were encouraged not to love me, but to sabotage and to abuse me. Both of my parents being pathological, I saw them as having tremendous power over me in a way that had me acutely aware of my powerlessness. Every day was a struggle for my very survival. I was denied medical care when it was more than needed. I was denied what might have been a normal sexuality had I not been exposed to pathological men who saw me as a sex object. To psychopaths, there is no discernment when it comes to sexual partners as they can be adults or they can be children. Keeping in mind that this is about power for them, I see how none of my sexual abusers cared whether it was my mother or me or someone else. We were interchangeable. I was denied hugs, kisses, nurture and love. My environment felt much like a battlefield I walked through every day, avoiding as much abuse as possible and most of the time, it wasn’t possible.

This ‘feeling’ of so much societal hatred and intense rage, has me feeling sad for so many people I care about, and those that I’ve met online who have messaged me and shared that they believe they were involved with a psychopath and that they see the lines I’ve drawn to political pathology with the exploitation of hate and fear and what is going on in society. What our politicians and our government are doing to us, tearing apart the very fabric of democracy, of a collective respect for human beings, who are objects to be utilized or are already discarded and ready for the trash heap, is outrageous to me. And just like it was at home, I feel completely powerless to do anything about it.

When I see comments about those in poverty by ‘poor haters’, when articles like the one about Mitch McConnell and food stamp recipients I feel as scapegoated and victimized as I did at home. I also feel as shamed. When I left my last psychopath, I was in a world of grief, but I knew that nothing else but therapy could help me fix what was wrong. I knew that things inside of me were messed up. I couldn’t run to another relationship again. It would just be more of the same, so when I ran away from him, looking for a therapist, I was really running to myself, even though I had no idea what that looked like at the time. When I settled into therapy, I really believed there was a chance I would leave psychopaths and psychopathy behind me. I believed, really believed, that I would have some control in my own life and that all the abuse, the shame, the guilt, would eventually leave me, shedding light on a new person, evolving slowly with therapy and keeping my feet firmly planted in reality and with the willingness to purge all of the darkness I carried for so many years. . .never in my life, did I see that what was to come, would be the most difficult challenge in my life. The years of exposure to extremes, with pathological people and pathological environments, gave way to illness, to the realization that I walked around for years undiagnosed with severe PTSD and depression.

My new life would begin with adjusting to limitations, to new realities that did not involve reaching goals and dreams that I aspired too and worked so hard for. To admit that I suffered from physical illness was something I could not avoid, but to admit that my mental health issues plagued my life in such a way that I would never be able to realize my dreams, but in fact, limited me instead, had me outraged. I was willing to work through my past, connect as many dots as I could, look squarely at myself and my own inner darkness and believing I would move on from this. But what I didn’t count on, was that all the years exposed to pathology, brought unforeseeable physical and emotional damage. Nevertheless, I took on those challenges. Doing that meant I had to adjust to a life that I was not prepared to live. I fought my illnesses, doubted for a long time that they were even real. I fought my PTSD and my Depression, I didn’t want them to hold me down from my goals and dreams, but with each battle I waged in denial against it, brought more illness, more triggers, more fear. I felt it so dreadfully unfair to have damage, when I should have a new life, free from the grip of psychopaths and my pathological environments.

Over time, my therapist taught me how to learn to accept and embrace my damage. To view it as battle scars, and that I was still alive to talk about it. I was still here in that I could help others who were hurting too. I worked hard to try to separate my damage from a life filled with psychopaths. But it was when I realized I could not work, that things began to get worse for me. The shame I was carrying merely shifted to a life of abject poverty and a hyper sensitivity to society’s pathological perspective of people like me. A level of anger at politician’s who scapegoated people in poverty, so that they could enrich and empower themselves instead. It hit me very hard when I began to see that I had not escaped psychopaths. They were still in my life, but in a different way. All the dynamics are present, but the players and circumstances are different.

What exploiters say of those in poverty is not true. “Poverty is not a character flaw, it’s a lack of money” (Barbara Eirenreich). So many people I know live in poverty or are hovering above the line, surviving check to check. The pain they suffer, the missing out of milestones in their children’s lives because they’re working two or three jobs, or working a minimum wage job for an abusive corporation, because there is little else. Or stuck in a job where wages are stagnant, yet they cannot afford to get another job, the fear of losing a job that they have now, is intense, given the current economy. College is unaffordable for my own children, let alone other families I know. And this is just a short list. . . I’ve done much research on what government has done in depriving and sabotaging people in this country over the years. Most people don’t know that draconian cuts have been made to most social programs. An $80 billion dollar cut to SNAP. $93 million cut to WIC (Women, Infants and Children-food program), millions but from Pell Grants for low income students. Some middle class pension cuts. BAD trade deals that have taken jobs overseas, with another upcoming, the TPP, that’s worse than NAFTA. With welfare reform, implemented by Bill Clinton during his Presidency, there are restrictions now on how long one can be in the program. In our state a healthy woman is required to return to work six weeks after her child is born. There are strict requirements that are in place and many do not qualify for welfare. There are less on welfare than there are on the food stamp program. There have been housing cuts, making it more difficult to help an increasing homeless population. In my county alone, there are over 4,000 homeless. Many of these people have children who are bused to schools in our area from designated areas for pick up for the homeless children. I see more and more people on the streets, holding up signs. Some of them have been well dressed in suits and dresses, asking for jobs. I have more than once, stopped and talked with the homeless. I wanted to get to know them more and what their lives were like. I deeply care for those who are impoverished, for those who have been harmed by pathological rhetoric meant to shame and hurt people in our population who need our help the very most.

None of these people in poverty are lazy, unmotivated or living high on the hog. I see many of them once a week when picking up our own food box. The lines are growing, but what I noticed about all of these people, as we stand in line and wait, we all share a common problem. We are white, black, mexican, and asian. We are Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. We are LGBT. We are adults and children and young people. And we are all living in poverty, but we all have empathy. People in poverty are some of the nicest people you’d ever like to meet. Of course there are those who aren’t so nice, but my experience is that there are more who are nice, than who are not. I see the pain on their faces as they talk about their situations. I see the anguish and the fear. And I know that they see mine. Many of us are disabled. What is uncanny is that while waiting in line, I’ve met several people who are politically involved. I’ve long since suspected that the poor know who their oppressors are, hence the constant efforts to suppress their votes. It’s not the middle class that’s being suppressed, is it? I like them even more when I discover they are voting for Bernie Sanders. A man with empathy, who is targeted by those in power as some sort of socialist, freak of nature. It’s sad to me that it feels our society has lost so much of its empathy. Or maybe it’s just pathological people tend to screech the loudest.

There is nothing at all about living in poverty that makes anyone happy. I can only speak for me and what it’s doing to me personally, with what I see as psychopaths in power, depriving me of a life of peace, of recovery. A period of time to get well. More and more social security cases are being denied, when people like me, need it the very most. The outrage in what has been done to me, regarding my case and the denials I have received, and the pathological tactics in content, is something I wish I could discuss. But because my case is ongoing, I can’t. Without financial security and good health, there isn’t much of a foundation for recovery at all. The unbelievable stress is taking a toll on my health and my mental health. It is very much like dealing with psychopaths on a daily basis, for I know they hold power over my life and there is great frustration for me, in wanting desperately to sleep at night. To have the room to rest, to recover. But most of all, to be independent. I have to rely upon the good graces of friends and occasional donations here and loans from my foster family to survive. I’ve sold just about everything that meant anything in my home. And my car right now, is on the chopping block next. I feel a constant burden of shame, because I feel such a burden to others….

Which brings me here. To my blog. I’ve avoided writing how I’ve been feeling about political psychopathy and what it’s doing to me and others in society. It’s very painful to me, when I so desperately want to let go of it.

Not too long ago, a friend of mine suggested that I set up a fee for guidance and support. I know that many survivors have done this and for those who are successful, it can potentially bring them a lot of money. I tried it for about two months. It didn’t bring much in the way of income. It was sporadic and my email from survivors noticeably slipped. I began to wonder how many were reading, needing help, but couldn’t afford it. This bothered me a great deal. How can I complain about poverty, when I know there are survivors out there who need help, some form of guidance, but can’t afford me, let alone a therapist. And I’m not a therapist! I felt I was being contradictory. I know it’s all about perspective, but I couldn’t change mine on this one. If it were me, I’d hope that someone might hear me without having to pay a ‘fee for services’. Please understand that I’m not saying this isn’t okay for others, but for me, it’s not right now. One has to believe that what they’re offering is worth something. I do believe I have something to offer, but not enough that it warranted a fee. I’m extremely sensitive to survivors who might be struggling in their lives. I want to be there for them, even if they can’t afford it, so I’ve set myself back to free status. If a survivor wishes to make a donation that is entirely up to them, and it would be appreciated, but choice is important, poverty at an all time high. No one should be denied because they cannot pay.

So if you’re struggling right now, please feel free to write to me. My email address is on the right side of the blog. But please DO remember to provide paragraph breaks. My eyesight it terrible and it’s hard to read emails without them.

This post is a ‘free write’. I’d forgotten the reasons I started this blog in the first place, which was for catharsis. I would free write a lot. Just rambling and this post  is no less tonight. It just feels good to get it out. Thanks for reading..

Onward and Upward.

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