He is a full blown narsasistic sociopath with obsessive compulsive personality disorder, and a black and white thinker. Being black and white is what got me going. I am familiar with it, so I knew a little bit on how to handle it. I adapted quite well and when the escalations in personality and temper would start to flare up, I knew not to press any issues or do anything that would piss him off. I got quite good at this and learned to recognize it immediately when it would start up. He would go weeks and even two whole months between periods. We even seemed to manage to not even have any real temper tantrums because I was so good at keeping him calm.
But here it is in a nutshell. He sucked me in until he had me hook line and sinker. All the love and attention and acceptance a woman could ever want. All the promises. Any thing for you baby. Papa will take care of it. In the beginning he would rush home. And tell me he loves coming home to me. He’d have the biggest smile and was the happiest man alive. I’d stop and see him at work and be met by the biggest smile and kisses. I’ve never had any one so happy to see me. EVER. But then it was expected to stop by work. And bring dinner. And be on time. OK, the man works his butt off, he deserves dinner at a reasonable time. As time went on tho, he’d come home later and later. At this point, he WAS at work. He loves to work. 7 days a week in the summer. At any rate I was left home alone alienated from the world because we lived in the country. In the middle of no where with no friends or family around. We did live close to the rez where you can get cheap gas but was told…. It’s bad gas it screw’s up the engine, I’m the mechanic that works on your car and I don’t want you getting that gas. At first I believed him, until he mentioned week after week how the pump at the rez never printed out a receipt for him and he always had to go inside. Hmmm it’s good enough for his baby, his truck, but not me? OK I got it. But I bought rez gas anyways. It was supposed to Keep me from affording to go to the city to see family and friends. Oh, and eating garlic. Every time I went to the city he said I came home smelling like garlic. Because I usually grabbed a piece of Pizza. Any ways, I spent many many hours at home… Alone. Too many hours. Way too many hours. It started to eat at me like disease. I became more and more depressed and maybe I wasn’t as much fun any more. I was always sad. It had to show. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t accomplish any thing in a timely manner. It would take all day to accomplish simple household tasks. I was exhausted. Crying all the time.
When his kids would come around, we would all be sitting at the kitchen table, but the one clung to him, hugged him, touched him. Immediately it made me uncomfortable. Omg… They are having sex. I remember feeling this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. But then your COMMON SENSE kicks in and and says, oh you’re just imagining things.
A year and a half later, I start really digging into some research and reading. Black and white thinking was my first Google attempt. Which put me on the path of narsasism, which led to sociopaths, and psychopaths, and personality disorders. Holy crap… It all makes sense now it all ads up. It explains him completely.
About a month before the shit hits the fan, I find out from one of his daughters that he touched another daughter. Wtf. Now I really suspect what I thought all along about the other. But this still can’t be. This man loves me, every one has issues, I will stand by him and we will get thru this together. His pain clearly goes way deeper than I thought. I will stick by him. Which now makes me feel like I’m even crazier for wanting to stick by such a horrible human being. He molested at least two of his six daughters. And now for the boys. The two oldest commit suicide. One hung himself and the other died of some sort of esphixiation at age 14. We would be having sex and tho he never hurt me choked me or was I ever in fear that he would ever hit me, sometimes, during sex, he would say, let go, just pass out. You are my best student he would always say. You are safe, papa’s got you just let go and pass out. I always thought this was weird about being his best student. But seeing as he thought he was God’s gift to women and he always told me he loved sex with me the best out of his wivescand girlfriends, I let him talk whatever he wanted. But the correlation between him wanting me to pass out, and how the boys died……I just can’t wrap my head around this. I realize …..wives and girlfriends.. I know, but, before I condemn, I always see the good in people. It’s a curse.
It wasn’t until I left and was back in my own home that I learned about him and the second daughter. The one I had suspected a year and a half ago. I am a fairly intelligent woman. I have my issues, we all do. But I never imagined I was so weak inside that I would make excuses and get sucked into such a disgusting situation. I’m sick with myself. But if I dig deeper and thru counseling i amunderstanding why I was so vulnerable.
My father was my love. I can’t remember too much about him other than he loved me. I do remember him walking around town with me holding my hand. I remember him laying on the couch teaching me how to snap my fingers and I can remember being too small to sit on a bar stool so he sat me right on top of the bar! This was all around the age of 2-3 I can remember. My mother on the other hand, was a tyrant. Screaming yelling swearing. I was afraid of her. At about age 2, I can remember sitting at the kitchen table eating macaroni and butter. Well, actually NOT eating my macaroni. So she took the bowl, while screaming, thru it up against the backslash of the sink. Macaroni dripping down the wall and she told me to eat it. From there I don’t remember particular instances but I knew I was always afraid of her. I knew she always screamed and yelled and swore. It wasn’t until I was probably 7or 8 maybe that beatings would begin. I remember one time, I forgot to put the napkins away after dinner. Well when she started screaming and yelling, who could concentrate or focus. So I had no idea what to do with these napkins. I couldn’t remember where they went. She took me into the living room and with all the yelling it put my head in a fog. I remember the room literally looking like it was foggy. And I got a beating. Now that I’m saying this, I remember screaming. Screaming so loud that someone would hear me and come rescue me. I don’t remember all the beatings but I remember always screaming as loud as I could. I knew neighbors had to of heard me. But no one ever came.
My mother was a large woman. Tall and on the heavy side. She would go into these rages and grab me by the hair and swing me around and throw me. The skin on my scalp was pulled up off my scull and swollen. Hunks of hair was missing. I mean how hard are you pulling and swinging that a whole hunk of hair would pull out of my head. She would beat the snot out of me with this huge thick leather belt that had a huge brass buckle on it. So of course , the larger the buckle, the larger the pin that went into the belt holes. That pin would dig into my skin like you wouldn’t believe. The whole thing left huge bruises and welts. And then to have a beating happen again before you healed. OMG the pain. During one of these episodes, I was on the kitchen floor trying to scramble away from her. She kept crushing my head and face with her foot. Maybe I was lucky she wore sneakers and not leather shoes. A teacher asked me why my face was all bruised and I told her exactly what happened. I remember her saying, oh honey I wish I could take you home with me. I went to my guidance counselor and begged to be taken out of the house. He looked at me like I was crazy.
Speaking of crazy…. My mother was getting crazier. She decided that her method of beating had to change, so one day she got out the broom and beat me with that. It became a ritual for her. It would be summer vacation and in the morning when she got up, I would be doing chores, which I never did good enough. But I would hear from the family room, that’s 10, that’s 20, that’s 80, 90,100… And at 4:00 she would say go get the broom and I would have to hand her the broom, stand there, while she beat me over the back with all her anger and might. What ever I racked up for the day. It was always at least 100. And if I said ow, or screamed, she would start over. I would be beaten and bloody and sweaty. Exhausted. I’d have to put away the broom and go to my room. I remember how taking a shower was so painful. It felt like a million needless stabbing my broken skin. But I got up every morning for school and always had a good day in school. No one ever knew. My friends had no idea. I laughed and learned and it was my heaven to be in school. Especially art class. How I loved to be in art.
How did I get thru these beatings? The pain of a new beating on top of wounds not yet closed and healed. I psyched myself out. I told my self that Jesus was a human and look at what he endured. I told myself that the slaves were beaten even worse than me and they survived it. Aren’t we both the same? Human beings, with flesh and blood and feelings? If these slaves could get thru whippings, then I can surely get thru a beating with a broom stick. And I did. I made it. I got thru it.
What did I do to deserve these beatings? Not a damn thing. My mother was miserable from when she was a kid. Always making everyone else miserable. She was fat and all her friends were skinny. She had no self esteem, no self confidence, no self love. Then my step father would tell her she was fat, and she’d take a diet pill. In this days they were strong speeders. Then she’d get nervous and take a Valium. And her self talk was so destructive , for herself and all of us. She got pregnant with me so I ruined her life. My father was a drinker and partier and a schmoozer. Every one loved him. Hey… Sounds like this recent boyfriend. She was miserable because his girlfriends would pick him up or drop him off while she was home with me. But it was the step father who drive her crazy. Your fat, don’t eat, here’s some candy, don’t eat it. They fought and she wasn’t gonna lose a fight. Swearing like lunatics, he began beating her like he was in a barroom brawl with another man. Which then she took out on me. Plus I was also his favorite. She was jealous of that. Again… My beatings… I’d scream bloody murder hoping someone would come save me. OMG…I can remember the bf saying… when I first met you, you had a look on your face like save me. Are you fucking kidding me. WHO gave this man all the inside info on me? He was getting into my head without me even realizing it.
One night, the boyfriend and I are snuggled up on the couch all comfy cozy, lovey, dovey. Watching a murder mystery. A scene comes on where the husband goes after his wife to beat her with a broom. I freak out and start to cry. He assures me I’m safe, no one is going to hurt me. Later, in the movie, the police go to see the coroner. He explains that … This woman was severely abused. She has scarring and this and that in her body. OK. At this point, I am emotionally set back 40 years. It’s all still inside of me. All the beatings all the bruising, all the scares… It’s still all inside me. Well. I’m a complete basket case now. This just puts me over the edge.
So now, my mental and emotional state are as fragile as ever. The bf is on dating web sites, I’m trying to fix it and make him fall in love with me again. In a mess. I called a friend over night and cried so hard I couldn’t even speak. I’m sure she thought I was going to say someone died. I hadn’t died yet but I was well on my way. A few weeks later, he said to me, don’t worry baby, everything’s OK, you’re in, when I don’t come home for a few days is when you know. Well, good Friday, 6am, he kissed me good bye, said see ya. Not good bye, I love you…, see ya. And I never saw him again. Until he showed up at my house with the police to claim his car back that I stole from him. He gave me the $300 to buy it from a friend. Told me to put the title in his name so he can go register it and switch plates and insurance. Trusting I would be with this man forever, I did. So, technically it was his car not mine. So here I sit, lost my car, lost the man I thought was going to love me forever, lost all my future hopes and dreams and projects. Lost.