Archive for the ‘manipulation and mind control’ Category

new years day for liars and hostages isn’t new or happy.

don’t read me wrong.  i’m not his hostage.  i’m my own.   i am responsible for enduring this.

all day has been such a mess.  stupid, worthless and totally unnecessary lies, anger belching out of him towards our daughter for acting her age (under three) and his best friend (paranoia) have all taken turns.  an 1/32nd inch wick on his t.n.t. would be enough for the fire department to monitor were it literal.  maybe they could send the robots to defuse him or destroy him.  good luck getting me to care which it were tonight.  i’m aghast at foul demeanor on holidays..

i made the traditional beans, greens and cornbread anyway.  i need all the luck, money and gold that i can get my hands on.  do wish my daughter and i good luck for this year should you have a moment.  we will really will need it.


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post start date:  nov 4 2010…

anniversary time,  happy happy!!  happy radial and ulna fracture!  happy “bon anniversaire, mon divorce hypothétique!”

“feliz aniversario, mi divorcio hipotética!”

“felice anniversario, il mio ipotetico divorzio!”

“юбилеем, мой гипотетический развод!”

you’re worth a bag of sick,




“sretna godišnjica, moj hipotetski razvod!”

“גליקלעך יאָרטאָג, מיין כייפּאַטעטיקאַל גט!!”

happy google translate.

but, yeah, a year ago he jumped up at me and took me down with all of his force saying, “you think you’re tough?  i can be tough too.”  my poor wrist was broken in his hand as it smashed against a table on the quick way down.  that was the first moment of silence we’d had in over an hour while i looked, in total sobering shock, at my twisted arm that was rapidly swelling and changing color.  we’d been fighting and i had lost all control and was hitting him with all of my primal anger and weak hands.  he’d accused me of cheating again.  it was almost a pastime of his, accusing me of things and finding ways to further isolate me.  this time his insecurity involved a man i worked with.  i lost it.  i kept thinking, “you are not going to take my job away… you are not going to make me feel guilty for supporting my daughter.. you are not going to take the pride i have in my work away from me!!!  i don’t deserve this, i’ve never deserved this.”

(do i really want to go into the next moments?  can i?  i’ve really got to.  these are the really painful memories and the gray areas.)

i managed to weakly bark out, “you broke my fucking wrist.”  “call 911.”


he wasn’t going to call 911.

i certainly wish he hadn’t now.  if i’d had any idea what would happen to me,  i’d have crawled to the ER by my teeth.

no.  no.  no.  he wasn’t going to call and he had thrown my phone and i couldn’t find it.  staying low, i crawled to the front door and opened it and started screaming for help from the neighbors.  he grabbed my bluejeans and pulled me inside again, slamming the door behind us.  at that moment, it occurred to me that he was going to kill me.  horrific pain was setting in and i was too weak to fight him for help so i just pleaded repeatedly and cried, hoping to find the place where he keeps his shame and guilt or simply badger him into doing something.  “they’re going to arrest us both and our daughter is going to go to social services.”  “CALL!!!” i yelled.  what a mistake, one of my worst.

i never thought in a million years that they would arrest me.  i thought they were going to take him and put him where he belonged and that we’d sort through his treatment, child custody and our separation later.  what a relief it would be to come home from the ER and have him gone.  oh justice!  oh righteousness! oh how naive.  i’ve always known he was a liar.  a poor one.  just as poor at it as our police force is at their work.

and it rolls.  downhill all the way he’s got me rigid.

i went to my talk therapy.  there had been quite a delay.  i had forgotten all the broken children he left inside of me between our visits. upon query of him i gave too favorable of a report.  i just found last month’s apology letter and the last three days have cut me to threads of old sinew and short muscular fibre of little use.  of little taste, some butcher’s remains am i.  as i ride on my ticketed rickety train from a departure point of sane to an arrival in good old terror depot.  yarrow, pennyroyal, emmenagogues.. a cramp fed straining of my fragile bowel heart.  my gut receiver.  my pennyroyal, my dear black cohosh, do you work psychically?

can you abort him,

can you keep me while he tries to kill me, can you keep me well?  or  hide me from the manic carousel?

he is going to kill me
i found out the other day it’s so rarely complete, my full sentence, my full thought.

of course you can’t.  stay tuned.  it’s ratcheting up.

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or just “get loh”… for short. i read a list of scripts for that doll and i’ve got ‘er beat, i do.
it’s been worse since i discovered that i have a degenerated disc or “dark” disc that has flared like a chinese firework sending unintended sparks of pain down my legs and up to my shoulders in an out of control and startling spray of wild fire.

i have always had back pain. this is just new. i made sure it was documented in film, the beginning of my demise, so that i might be ensured to be insured or conversely certain of my disability status should i need to employ an alternate route of employment or entitlement. i’ve been chewed up and spit out the food pipe. it’s as clear as day.. or night… as my mri would convince you.

oh, and i’ve got a cavity.. in my tooth… my second one ever. what does a little more drilling style pain matter?

so.. for the “get loh”, reference, i mean to describe only the contents of my purse, not my behavior. being that i have a 2.5 year old daughter i carry all of my medications in my purse at all times. there is no room for error with some of the medications that i am prescribed and my little monkey has never met a child-proof cap that she couldn’t figure. so when i need the E-phone or a credit card or my keys, there are about 7 bottles of controlled substances in the way. sometimes, i have gum too, but for the most part a junkie would rob me.. and have a nice three days.

it’s a bit of a mirror looking into a bag like that that happens to be yours. the “c” or “n” at the beginning of each bottle number makes you feel a little far out. your name on all the bottles and the tally of your daily swallows makes you feel a little far out. even the closest of people can’t help it. i’m in my thirties, after all, not my seventies. it commands visual attention, often displayed as wide-eyed staring with deafening silence. don’t get me going on airport security… this is why i have sought out second opinions about my regime. i have been doubly assured that i will not suddenly die from this schedule of medicine. i’ve been told that there are far worse cases, longer lists and much more dire situations. i know that it’s true. my lohan is to your jackson. i just don’t want to be layne staley sometimes. it’s wise beyond strife and circumstance that i do not live alone. curse it.

so, to change the subject, we’re back to hell again. it has been declared my fault because i am the designated crazy person. i’m clear about that. i’m assured that my sensitivity to his drastic mood “swing” (as if it were a pleasant ride of some sort with a carnie taking your height by eyeball) caused me to interrogate him, beg for honesty from him and failing all other footholds, tell him to go to bed (get bent!). two weeks and three days we made it. we’ve not often fared so well. even my talk doctor was convinced that his resolve was not an act since it had lasted such a significant amount of time within our scope.

♫ qué sera, get fucked! whatever is now will be. the future ‘ain’t ours to fist, qué sera get, fucked!♫

the mood. the mood of doom. don’t blame me, i can’t drink proper on all these meds to even conceive of screwing us up this bad. i know what i felt. what i felt was… the old. the not forgotten old damage of our new time. there was jealousy and mistrust and distaste coming from his earthly soul. i’m not deaf/dumb/blind and the last of descriptions that you could coin for me would have to be, “imperceptive.” i am confident that i read the book correctly.

what heartbreak. what sorrow, what shame! what horror, what shock, what betrayal and antipathy.

all mine alone. i want to kick myself in the ass for allowing a single hope to build again. i’ll do better without anymore hope. i’m going to subtract it from my repertoire.

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here you are, if you were wondering, the ultimate- the penultimate failure of judgment i was designated in advance to enact has arrived. i have the clock ticking now on the surveillance.

ha! hahahahahaha!! i lost my own bet. i make good on them too. here’s yer 5 bucks, yer snoot, yer own personal accomplishment in righteousness.

i am a moron.

i’m the fool. the rider waite fool.

upside down, as an artist, things dooooo look a little more composed. i’ve got it now. you’re sick.

you’re sick.

i’m trying to light matches in the rain.

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i went on my half of our divorced vacations into the mountains of colorado via albuquerque.  flying with my daughter was easy, save the luggage portion.  after our trial run a few days before we had everything pretty much down to a science.  our arrival at my parents’ summer home was like some sort of bath for me.  stress washed off me like a good coat of woodstock worthy mud.  i enjoyed breathing there.  i enjoyed everything from the moment he drove away from us at the airport.

i was really, really well.  i was suffering from severe back pain, but it didn’t matter.  i had no emotional stress.  i drank far less than i had been drinking at home, because i didn’t really feel like it, certainly not because there weren’t bottles or outstretched hands.  i only felt the urge of total obliteration one evening in a week and a half.

the break from the heat in austin alone was so well worth the trip, but the calm that i began to grow used to was probably the most valuable thing about it all.  not the family togetherness, the nature, the nostalgia, but the calm.  the breathing.  a lot of people have more trouble breathing in higher altitudes.  i didn’t.  in fact, i used less albuterol while i was there than i have in months.  maybe you can explain that by pointing at central texas allergies.  that’s not how it feels to me though, my magical thinking has led me to believe that i actually breath better away from him.

ha… well, maybe.  one thing is absolutely certain.  i ate food.  i ate at least twice a day.  thank goodness for mom.  i still prepared all of our daughter’s food and snacks separately and cleaned up after us.  the only difference was that i ate as well.  i ate the first night home, but i have not been very adept at eating in the past few days.

he’s been… sort of on a rip… or something.  bad things, not involving me, have sort have fallen (read: landed) on him (because of things that he said or did) and left him in puddles of trouble.  he’s dusted his ass off and currently seems to be looking okay.  but, he isn’t.  he’s more depressed than i’ve seen him since last fall.  all interactions that i have with him include stunts of his most favorite veins: passive aggressive manipulation, extreme defensive posturing, self deprecating interrogation and (everyone’s favorite) allusions to suicide.

so.. i can’t eat, can’t breath and i’m drinking too much.  again.

we had a valuable talk about him getting help today.  it came out to be worth the value of one particular statement he made: “no one can help me.”

i’m in there.  i’m in the focus group of no one.  i cannot help him.  i cannot help myself when i try to help him.  i can’t breathe here.

most immediately, i have no idea what to do.

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it would be unreasonable and unfair to blame my problems on someone else, right?

let’s face it i’ve always had problems.  from my drunk mom to my disappearing dad.  they don’t pull you into private therapy from school at the age of nine if you’re okay.. and you’ve always been doing just fine.

they’d give me play dough to build the entities i despised.  they were traits for me and not people and i destroyed them as soon as i built them up.  i told the same truth i have always told, my truth.  so when my file and i got to middle school and i landed 7 state felony counts in one blow my creative writing class took on a whole new meaning.  my favorite subject was simply a double agent.  my stories landed me in alanon to deal with my mother’s disease.  if only i’d known then…

all the things i know now.

absolutely everything would be the same.

so it’s really hard to call anyone out as the reason i’m so fucked up and have been drinking in excess for three days.  it just wouldn’t be warranted, if i said, that someone or something made me feel like checking out (of here) – or checking into the nearest funny farm.  i have to have some autonomy left, right?  left, right? left right left right left right.  these are my decisions.  i have made them as awful as they are.  tomorrow the plane comes and takes me away from here.

how will i come back home?  yes, yes, by the plane.  back to silence and fear.

not to worry now, not now.

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i missed my plane.

i tried to do everything right, but i didn’t and i missed the plane.  we spoke about stand-by.  i looked at my kid and decided we had to reschedule.  so instead of flying away from here and all of this i had to call home, and then my home.  tell my mother, who was suddenly becoming very ill, to turn around and my husband who is mostly ill to return to fetch us.  my daughter laid flat on the asphalt and had a fit when she finally realized that we weren’t actually going on a plane.

i felt like doing the same thing.  then all of our luggage exploded out of it’s giant overstuffed bag on to the ground as my running car poured coughs of exhaust onto it.  so i took the only measures i knew how to, i took pills and drank for the rest of the day.

well, i had to take pills at the airport because i turned white, shook like a leaf and drowned in sweat when the four people in front of me lost their flights.  there was only one person checking baggage.  the security lines almost sent you back out of the building, which would have been nice because at least i could have smoked.  i couldn’t stop crying.

my husband was almost terror stricken by our departus-interruptus.  i spent the ride back home listening to him tell me how he had taken care of “angry-***” and found that he had no right to be angry and that he felt so bad for us and my family as well.  i should have known better.

it’s two days later and i’m coming out of the coma i had to put myself into to live through this last fugue.  he says that when i come home, he’ll have the divorce papers.  he abandoned us near bedtime tonight.  so i locked the top lock, fed, bathed and read our child to sleep.  i heard him downstairs pounding.  then i heard the pitter patter of angry feet while i read as she started to doze.  someone snuck a peek into our dark room and quickly left again.  i’m writing this with the phone in my hand.  not dialed for the police, no… never that again… just for a friend.  i hope he doesn’t kill us.  i hope we can leave monday morning. i have over reacted though.  when he said he was leaving for good he really meant, going to get chinese food because there wasn’t anywhere else for him to go.  i should have never locked that top lock.  i’m such a bitch.

i don’t know what else to do.  i give it cute names.  call these outbursts of fury, fugues.  i refer to the land in which he describes me as a negligent and absent mother as bizarro-land.  the place where he terrorizes me is just the “for worse” they warned me of.

please monday,  come.  i want to be able to feel myself again.

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