No words…a quietly violent death


I want my voice back! I want…no, NEED…to write of these things. The breathless pain, the torturous injustice, the made-for-tv-movie drama filled bullshit, the nightmare I can’t wake from.
I need to tell my story and share my truth. I need to whine incessantly, bitch and moan annoyingly,…I am so desperate to write it…spew it all over the pages like filthy projectile vomit…throw it out there like a slab of disgusting rancid wretched meat into the cesspool of anonymous oblivion.
Why can I not? Why can’t I get it OUT?
It’s as though I was sucker punched in the gut taking all wind from my body and before I could breathe again to get that out on paper, I was sucker punched again in the head this time so I couldn’t breathe OR think to tell about it…and as I tried to catch my breath and regain my senses this time, the blows just started pummeling me non-stop, chronic sucker punches from all directions…turning my already delicate world upside town like my earth became a blender and I the sole lonely contents…viciously being grinded, smacked, punched, kicked, ripped, shredded into a puddle where there once was at least the shell of a human being with a soul, a heart, and internal organs floating aimlessly inside. Now a puddle of nothing… what would I even be a puddle of now? Tears, blood, scar tissue, liquefied brain mass, and picked scabs? ….all inside this skin of a shell holding the random, chaotic leftovers of the human blender. Deceptively with no signs of the inner sheer pandemonium from the outside.
But where is my voice? The dust has settled a bit. The desperate reaches of my mind make daily attempts to reassemble in some sort of working order… They’ve not succeeded yet, but with some coaxing and reminding, I can take breaths here…and there….when my brain remembers to remind my body to breathe…. Breathe…. Take a breath. There you go. Deeper….release…repeat. but my voice is still feeble and my brain mass still too confused to write.
And dear Lord in heaven, I so desperately need to write of this! I’m suffocating and paralyzed with jumbled emotions, tragedies, and a chronic sense of sheer and dark doom. It’s choking me moment by moment…all right there…but so disorganized and outraged, bleeding and messy…that it shuts up my voice. My god damned voice. The only fucking thing I’ve ever ALWAYS had. My voice which when couldn’t speak, would write…and write…and write…til the wee hours of dawn or midnight candles burned into non-existence. When my mother choked me with fear and hatred, read my journals, and punished me for them, I wrote at school and saved them in my trusty old orange locker, tossing them in the garbage on the last day of school. Or, I wrote poetry, cleverly disguising truth with whimsically mysterious words that only I knew the meaning, rhyme, and reason… Pretending it was just a magical DisneyWorld of words
But I fucking spoke. I spoke with pen and paper, my passion for words and an inner fearless light that no one could shut me up from there. Not that place. Not my place; my only place in the universe where somehow the quiet horrors or indescribable pain came to life and existed. They existed like the thoughts running through your mind exist and skip and frolic fearlessly. And no one could deny them there or punish them or twist them into something they never were.
I had a fucking voice.
Now, I am wordless, voiceless, a scattered being tossing about on the wind like my daddy’s loving ashes…and yet I’m not emotionless.
I do not exist…and yet in the cruelest irony of them all, somehow I do still exist within that very blender of pummeled non-existence.
Without a voice, I don’t know how…or why… I’m forced to exist at all.

The Death of Muchness

It's all empty.

It’s all empty.

It is a cruel irony that after 43 years of begging for love, begging to be deemed “worthy” of love, life, existence, the right to have feelings and thoughts, to count as a human being in this world I never requested to be brought into….
That I give up because I don’t. I don’t deserve those things. I can’t even give birth to anyone who will believe the nonsense hope I’ve been holding onto since my earliest memory… That I, too, am worthwhile.
I don’t know why God or whoever, put me here…a punching bag of regret and ridiculous dreams I guess…a cautionary tale in why not to love or hope or believe we all matter, each and every one. I make the easiest target. Hell, it’s not even sport!
He came to me last night… out of the very same deep blue abyss from where I starting losing my muchness. Imagine that?
I think it’s been since October that I saw him last… No communication whatsoever between then and now. …until last night. Until last night…gosh, that could be THE defining description of the past eight years of him! Until last night… Until last night… Until last night…
And I can’t possibly know why. I know how – via cab. I know what – nothing but a moment. I know where – right here. I will never know why though. Why last night? Why after all this time again? Why…? Why me? Why not she? Or that one? Or this one here? Why?
And that defining moment of which I’ve now had 1,462,892 and chosen the same definition again and again. Ugh…fuck that moment dammit AND my stuck-like-a-skipping-record repeated choice.
And driving him to his truck this morning, I ask myself the question, why? Do I even feel anything anymore? Once upon a time, I was simply trying to hold desperately to my muchness. My muchness is long gone now, so why?
The physical element isn’t totally gone…so is that my why? Without my muchness, even that physical aspect is altered from before. It is good, but not the phenomenon it was with my love, hope, faith, and muchness. Now, it is simply what it is, which is nothing. Nothing whatsoever.
The good part is, I can take it or leave it finally…so “taking it” actually feels like a choice, an option. And, it is good to feel it won’t kill me either way. Can’t kill that which is already dead.
Yes, I am dead. At this point, it is all just borrowed moments. Tiny flashing moments borrowed from a collection of my muchness memorabilia. So… why?
Why not? What matters is gone and the rest…well, it just doesn’t matter either way.

Elephant in my living room!

I can’t talk to M about much of anything anymore and it scares me.  We are moving so soon and so much rides on him for that…. 

I keep trying in a delicate, but honest, way to point out my concerns, but just like 13 years ago, everything is an “attack”.  Every word of concern gets met with, “I AM NOT A BAD PERSON!!  I AM NOT A BAD PERSON!!  I AM NOT A BAD PERSON” screamed repeatedly over my trying-to-stay calm voice and words, until I have no choice but to hang up the phone.  Obviously, this doesn’t result in anything productive and does the very opposite of reassuring my fears. 

This experience throws me clear into full force PTSD as I’m hurled instantly to 13 years ago…trapped, scared, nervous, with a 3 month old child to care for.  My knees shake, my head spins and the frustration at not being heard, not being counted, not being considered, not being able to even TALK is overwhelming and terrifying to my core.  What am I doing?

Mark, he who I’ve watched struggle and kick for years, fighting his way past and beyond all that once haunted and controlled him, is yet again unreachable, irreproachable, impossible to reason with. And I am left feeling two options:  return to that horribly handicapping environment which threatened my sanity or continue raising my children far away from their loving father.  

Even the choices alone don’t feel like choices.  They feel like steel walls closing in on me fast, boxing me in tight, with the “rules” written in graffiti all over them in bold black paint.  Rules from my childhood; rules from my relationship with Mark 13 years ago. 

The rules:

  1.  No matter what M does or says, it’s always absolutely fine.
  2. No one is to question, doubt, or worry about M’s behaviors or choices.  They are all as close to perfect as could possibly be.
  3. No one is to point out (kindly or otherwise) any fears or, God forbid, discrepancies in Mark’s choices.
  4. If you see an elephant in the living room, no one is to speak of it, question its presence, or for God’s sake call it an elephant.  Nothing is what it appears and only M knows what it really is, so he cannot be questioned or expected to communicate with the rest of us. 
  5. It’s M’s world…only his reality counts…the rest of us are just graced with the opportunity to live in it…so SHUT UP.
  6. If you speak or imply any of the above, it is a direct “attack on M” and he will kick and scream accordingly, deftly playing the offense is the best defense game to the point that you’re wasting every word you can actually get into the conversation, trying (in utter futility) to insist that you’ve not attacked or insulted M.
  7. Every word you say that is not an ass-kissing “M, you’re the GREATEST!”  is, in fact, going to be considered an attack.
  8. Your actual words will not ever matter.  They are ALL an attack on Mark, unless they are a direct and undisguised compliment of his person and character.
  9. M will hear what M hears and it’s not up for discussion…  What M hears IS what you said, no matter how far off it may seem (to you) from what you’ve actually said.
  10. Questions, doubts, fears (authentic or otherwise) will NOT be tolerated or spoken of EVER.
  11. Unless you are complimenting M on how wonderful he is, you must SHUT UP AT ALL TIMES.

I am afraid.  I am rendered paralyzed to act and terrified to speak of my concerns…while the walls close in tighter on me.

Why NOT play Kick-the-Carcass?

No consecutive hours of sleep for what seems like weeks, although I can easily remember not so long ago when it had been more like months, so I logically know I can pull through this “short stretch”.  However, when n the midst of the sleeplessness, it feels as though I’ll pass out, die, or just maybe snap into forgettable pieces.  I keep reminding myself that it’s been worse and try to be grateful for the little bits of sleep I do get blessed with.

Stressing the move, finances, the gossip and lies (of course, as usual), THE ex, the children, packing, moving across the entire country from everything I’ve ever known, living out of district for my kids’ school out west, my ex husband, and his motives and choices, and how they’re going to relate and affect our lives out there, so far from the only  home we’ve ever known.

With all of this, I’m struck hard with acute awareness of the severe alteration of my heart, my perspective,  my very essence…  Who I once was is gone, with all that’s happening now and all I am responsible to be and do, with all the fears that are hanging just over my head like a shark’s mouth ready to swallow me whole, I really just want to sit down and bawl myself sick.  Grief hangs all around me like buzzards and flies on a  carcass.  I know, I know…  This is nothing new…I’ve been a barely-breathing carcass for years now, my only traceable movement being the slight shakes and involuntary shuffles and slides  of a dead body that’s being kicked a few extra times for good measure.  Big thanks to Dave and friends for that lovely prompt..without it, the buzzards might literally begin to feast on my mourning flesh, not just the metaphorical feastings of Dave and friends on the leftover remnants of my heart, my soul, my reputation, my freaking character!  After all, at this point, the pickings are so slim and meager that I genuinely can’t understand the interest…surely there’s not enough there to satisfy even a starving soul?

Apparently so, as I can’t even plan my pathetic, late-as-hell “escape” without a kick every once in a while for good measure.  I’m struggling and fighting this damned sense of victimization which I hate so much it makes me sick even to write of these things any more.  Or maybe it’s that burning sense of injustice and flood of unkindness and continued crucification which keeps me from withering up and dying completely.  It’s almost cost me a great degree of my voice and I do not know what I could even be after he’s fully taken my voice and my ability to write.  It just might be my lingering indignance which is holding the shell of my existence together at all, keeping it from crumbling quietly into dust. Perhaps I should stop fighting this victimized-feeling and embrace it, allow it to strengthen me out of my hopeless feeling of being powerless, beaten, and small?   Hmm….

I have comprised a plan of revenge.  In my circumstances, I have no way in which to actually carry it through, but it’s a lovely fantasy nonetheless.  I imagine that many people love me and know the truth of these past five years…the whole down-n-dirty, humiliating truth and they are so outraged and angry they begin a letter-writing campaign on my behalf – no, on the behalf of all people who have gone through emotional and mental abuse.  Upon me leaving my home, he receives hundreds of letters from people who know the truth, faceless people who are not afraid to stand up against this man’s cruel persecution of my spirit.  Each day or week he receives lovely pieces of mail from people who know what he has done and refuse to buy into his lies and bullshit, as a regular reminder that he did not just “get away with it”.  And he, like me, has no chance, opportunity, or method by which to combat the attack.  He would just have to sit in it, regularly reminded of his cruelty, its effects, and his powerlessness!  Then he might have to spend some time in paranoia, looking at every stranger who meets his eye and wondering, does he know?  Does she?  Just as I still worry with every person I meet or pass, “Did he tell them I was crazy?  Did he tell that person I’m a psycho?  A slut?  A lying cheater?  Wonder what story  that person heard?”

For it seems, just when I’ve let the worries go and have convinced myself anyone who believes his garbage at this point is merely a victim of sorts themselves and is entitled to my sympathy, when I finally get to the “I don’t give a damn what he’s said to anyone”, another lovely twisted story of his finds its way to me…piling on top of the huge pile of garbage he’s dumped on me that I’m already trying to climb out from underneath.  And the exhaustion revives itself in me.  The sense of powerlessness and damned victimization I hate SO much, gathers al around my soul to begin feasting again.

I sent him a message asking him just to please SHUT UP.  Leave me alone.   Reminding him he has not a single reason at this point in his game to speak my name even, let alone tarnish it further.  He has won by yards and miles already. The damage done is irreversible even now.  I’m leaving and his story will always stand in my place of absence; not mine, not the truth, but his sick and twisted deviation of my person. I can’t imagine any greater victory for him?  So why continue beating this broken and beaten thing?  Does he really still get that much pleasure and self-satisfaction from it…even NOW?  Why not just SHUT UP?   No, go above and beyond to make everyone always, think the person you’ve victimized is psycho crazy, then you never have to worry about being held accountable for the cruelty you perpetually heaped upon her…  After all, she’s just “crazy”.  Nothing she says will ever account to anything after you’ve told that to enough people ad nauseum.

Why am I so surprised anyway?  Why wouldn’t anyone want to continue kicking and beating the person they’ve already slaughtered?  After all, she’s dead already…. It’s not like anyone will ever find out the truth now…or believe it coming from a crazy-psycho dead girl even if they did!                                 

Ohhh it would be Christmas every day to just imagine this letter-campaign of outraged people, addressing the truth to him which he feels he has sufficiently buried beneath his heavily placed offensive-tactic accusations and insults. He could just laugh away a few letters, but if hundreds came to him long after I’m gone, that would have to make him think maybe he wasn’t really fooling everyone after all.  His mailbox becoming the screaming, lingering Tell-Tale Heart of an Edgar Allen Poe story!  It’s a harmless, but juicy thought in my weak state of stress, fatigue, and hopeless indignation…

(insert evil cackle here)

Absolute aberration

I experience the full comprehension of the literal definition of a wasted life…  It is when you have placed the highest value, importance, and priority on something which was hardly a fleeting thought to another.  What a sad waste of a life and tragic assisted suicide of a heart this has been.  I realize it will never be a worthwhile thought or experience to another living soul…except perhaps, just perhaps, in the book of “What Not to do in Life”.  It could possibly gain notice in that list, but somehow I doubt that even, as any reasonable human being would consider it as a given and not need to dull lesson of the obvious.  Even there, the experience could be skimmed through or skipped altogether….  How did my life become defined by this ridiculous aberration?  When exactly did it shift to that?  And why in the HELL upon this epiphany, would I allow it to continue feeding on the juice of my life?  Sucking me dry of all things worthwhile or  note-worthy in the slightest?  How is it possible or allowed that my experience, hell my existence itself, is one of complete futility?  This disgusts me.  When (and how?!!??) will that disgust grow strong enough to change it?

As I slowly die,I realize yet again that no other will be held accountable for this murder…  And I don’t really think even that matters any more to me.  That strong passion for right and wrong, justice and accountability…all falls back onto me.  Only I am to blame for allowing this death by slow torturous murder.  I couldn’t possibly point a single finger at anyone else because at the end of the day, it is I alone who must take responsibility for the contual madness…  No one has held a gun to my head in years.  I’ve chosen spite of myself, because of myself…  Although it doesn’t feel like a choice was ever placed in my hands…..I logically understand that it’s my finger on the trigger.  The rest is just words thrown in my direction, giving me step-by-step instructions albeit between the lines…reminding me that it is my fault alone.

I can’t help but wonder lately if I have ever had such a profoundly negative and immensely detrimental effect on another human being merely through my own selfishness, knowingly or otherwise?  I can’t know, except to know factually that if I have, it was sheerly unintentional and unknowing….

I have never played with my food for this long…nor someone’s emotions or quality and quantity of life…  I still feel guilt over saying something hateful once to Theresa ten years ago.

How does any one person become so much?  It is not rational or logical and certainly not sane or “normal”?  And if I have enough wisdom and intellect to see that, then why doesn’t it stop right there?

I was never intended for one-on-one love…it’s all a fluke and an aberration of nature…an absolute train wreck I can’t tear myself away from long enough or far enough to move past…or around..or over…

I pray for forgiveness if I have ever once created this much pain in another living thing for even one moment in time.  Ignorance is no excuse…


Out of sorts of course because I went there yesterday morning.  Had a safety plan in place, but of course that didn’t work.  And wondering why I go anywhere of my own volition where I feel the need to have a “safety plan”.  My masochistic side must run deep and rampant after everything.

Nope. Didn’t work. Of course it didn’t!  Who do I think I’m foolin’,  kiddin’, and messin’ with here?  As though any feeble attempt at controlling the situation in any way would be successful…  I am the definition of insanity at work every day and attempting to function.  My tiny, respectful demand was ignored…and I allowed that because I don’t have enough backbone anymore to even look out for my own self interest in even tiny, feeble, pathetic ways…

Yukkk…  I am discombobulated and disgusted.

Actually flirted (!!) with someone Thursday night and the immediate response is to run to him first ting Friday morning, as though I’ve got something to make up for.  It’s a weird game I’m playing with pretty much myself and it makes no sense!

Hex 2: “Receptivity to Love”

Question to I Ching:

What do I need to do regarding my situation with DK?


Hexagram 2:” Receptivity to Love:

Your love life is on fertile ground right now. This hexagram denotes “devotion,” “readiness,” and the creative spirit of the Earth. A powerful relationship has begun or is soon to manifest. This hexagram reminds one to be open to the idea of love, as love can come from where you least expect it.  Give and you will receive. Offer a kind word to someone, a hug, a greeting or an offer of assistance. See love for what it is: A conscious act of devotion and a willingness to stand by a special person.  Creativity and the act of creation are referenced here, and creative energies will play an extremely significant role.”

 Thinking if I stay any more “receptive” to him, I’ll begin to take on the characteristics of his garbage “receptacle”!!  Or maybe it’s too late….and I already bear those characteristics…  I already define giving till it hurts and have no further interest in the martyrdom lifestyle that brings me.  Nor does there seem to be a whole lot of Return on Investment.  And martyrs are rarely respected until they actually die for their cause to humanity.  My cause to humanity in this is to cease getting on humanity’s nerves from being a whiney cry baby:-D

Listen to me as though I get nothing in return!  I get everything in huge amounts spread out among tiny small moments!

Facing repercussions today.  Little nervous, but way-laying that by reflecting on how I ever got to this place at all and the madness that holds me here!  Things will be fine.  I know it.  It’s all going according to some greater plan, I’m sure:)

strange vocations?

Stole a little time away to write…  After a few days the urgency of that need is overwhelming and I’ll do or say whatever I must to steal away on my own and get the thoughts from my head out, where they seem to make more sense to me, to me at least!

Having a thoughtful discussion with Mark’s friend Rick yesterday.  We were talking of God having a vocation for every person; a gift which he gives each one of us to give back to the world to make it a better place.  Rick thinks his gift is encouragement.  I’d have to agree.  He’s very gentle and compassionate minded.  He not only asks questions, but he actually listens as well, as though he’s actually interested in the answers.  He is very kind and encouraging.  I appreciate that in him very much and I’m so glad he recognizes that he has that gift!

So I start thinking about what my gift is.  I used to think it was my empathic nature, but I’ve had to choose to try to relieve some of that and when otherwise impossible, to deny myself to act upon any of those natural tendencies.  This now as a much needed self preservation/protection mode- a somewhat method of survival in any peaceful sense anyway…  I don’t know about the rest of the world or what is “normal” everywhere else, but I’ve learned repeatedly that I’m not so safe utilizing my “gift” in the environment in which I currently live.  This reluctant realization has propelled me into an uncomfortable “Who am I?”, “What is my purpose?” mode. And thus, I must rethink my purpose.  Whoaaaa…this is rather unsettling under the circumstances.  After my conversation with Rick yesterday, I really pondered over and over what might make sense.  Thinking over everything that the past three years have brought, the specific struggles of most of my life, past situations, future possibilities etc., and add to that a couple of interesting, unintentional, off-handed remarks from Mark (which took me a few moments to “get”) and I think I might’ve figured out one possibility.  It’s actually the only thing that makes sense at all…and makes some sense of all my past challenges.  It’s rather sick and disgusting to me really, but in my current state of mind of years now, facing all that I face each day, in each situation,  I really can’t deny that it might be it.


Was woken at 3:15 this morning to a firm knocking, as though someone knocked exactly three times on my window or door loud enough to wake me.  The sound was so clear and crisp that I got out of bed and went to the door.  No one was there.  So I checked at the windows in my room and my daughters room to see if someone was out there.  No one was there.

This happened a month or so ago…exactly the same…and I felt it was a warning that he was coming soon.  Sure enough, 2 or 3 days later, he showed up standing over my bed at around 2 AM, wanting to “talk”, telling me how much he loved me and couldn’t live without me.  Making up stories about my life to get me to defend myself and declare my undying love for him.  It worked in part, but I told him I was dating someone and would not ever have sex with him again.  He wanted to sleep on my sofa.  He was dropped off by a friend, so I allowed him my sofa.  He tried again to have sex with me and I refused.  Then he asked if I would just stay on the sofa with him.  I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt strong and confident and so I did.  We talked awhile and finally slept until I  had to get up to get my kids ready for school.  He stayed here all day. ..trying to get me to have sex with him.  I wouldn’t.  Then he started with the stories again…

Why were you at my sentencing?  Just to gloat? No Dave!  That’s ridiculous!  I went to support you.  I prayed nothing bad would happen to you and I wanted you to know although I changed my phone number that I supported you and cared. Well, someone heard you say when I was in front of the judge, “Every time I hear his name, I feel sick.” What???  Are you kidding me?  That’s absurd and hateful and if your stupid little friend said I said that, then he’s a lying troublemaker!  I prayed while you were up there.  I prayed that the best outcome for your life would happen.  I prayed with all my power.  I wished nothing bad for you and I certainly said nothing at all, much less something that horrible.  Hmmm…well, someone said they heard you say that.  I’m sorry your friend told you that.  I said no such thing.

Then I hugged him and told him that I loved him completely and wished nothing at all bad for him.  He held on to me as though his life depended on it and started kissing me.  This is about 1 in the afternoon, after his drunken night, so  I’m assuming he’s relatively sober at this point.  I just reassured him how much I loved him and told him I didn’t want to be used for sex anymore that it made me feel dirty and worthless.  He softly touched my face, brushed my hair back and told me, I’m not using you.  I never use you.  I love you.

Of course he was lying.  He’s very sick and I believe addicted to me in a horribly damaging way.  Perhaps as I am to him?  I am fighting this sickness though.  I do not want it in my life.  I don’t want to love him.  I don’t want to care about him.  I don’t want to fall for his tricks and manipulations.  I want him to go away from me forever.  I’ve changed my friends.   Moved three times.  Changed the places I go.  Stopped havng sex with him.  Started having sex with him.  Lock my doors every night.  Drive different ways to get places.  Other than moving to another state, I do not know what else to do to get away from him permanently.

After the warning knocks last night, I am afraid again.  I have no defenses left.  I do not understand the knocking and I’m hoping it’s not what I thought it was (and was!) the last time because I’m just in the tender beginnings of healing.  I am not strong enough to take him on again right now.  I wish I had answers!

Yesterday I threw the I Ching to try to get insight on what’s happening and received 31.  Influence/Attraction.  That was scary.  Then the knocking this morning….

I honestly am starting to think he might actually be the devil.  I still love him, even if he is the devil, but I do not want the devil in my life or in my house anymore.  Must triple check the locks each night before bed…as though that will keep him out…


When I wrote of craving documentation, I did not think it was a necessity.  It was merely because I am forgetful sometimes, although not typically ergarding matters close to my heart.  Those things seem burned into my memories like permanent fixtures I can’t rid myself of when I want to!

However, it is exceedingly troublesome to be in the position to doubt reality.  I recall reading something about this technique referred to as “gaslighting”.  This term comes from a Hitchcock movie where a woman’s husband wants her to believe she’s crazy.  He tells her things didn’t happen when they did.  He tells her she did things she didn’t.  He tells her she didn’t do things she knows she did.  She gets increasingly confused by this and doubts her own sanity.  This is the perfect setup to make someone believe they’re crazy.  Although it is somewhat easy to dismiss this the first few times as just being mistaken, over time, it really does work to make you wonder…

No one thinks that documenting every encounter, ever visit, every conversation, every phone call or text would ever be necessary in order to prove mundane everyday things.  I think we should all be exhausted if we had to document every interaction with others in order to have verification of reality.  Quite honestly, out of embarraassment for the truth, I have not done that even here…the place where I really “let it all out”.  Why I would be embarrassed about things on a mostly anonymous blog, I’ve no idea, but I have been.   However, I’m now wishing I wasn’t.  Not that it provides any actual documentation or evidentiary proof of anything real, but at this point for my own peace of mind it would be comforting.  And mind comfort is hard for me to come by these days.  So, I’m really wishing I had blogged more concretely in dates and times and events. 

I did not.  And perhaps my embarrassment was what he counts on.  The embarrassment  does help keep things hidden and creates a challenge for me in the event that I ever might have to prove something, either to myself, him, or anyone else.  Although I just wouldn’t ever imagine that this kind of thing would be important to prove  anything other than possibly  a murder case or police investigation.  Couldn’t imagine it would be important to prove irrelevant events that shouldn’t even be up for debate…other than for someone attempting to “gaslight”.

Can I trust that I’m typing this right now?  Can I trust that I’m even sitting here?  I might not be.  He very well may tell me tomorrow that I wasn’t.  And when I attempt to “prove” it, by showing the blog entry with date and time (or some equivalent method of proof), he will explain it away, as though I’m ridiculous to believe that proves a single thing. 

And gosh, why would I ever need to prove such things anyway, right?  I should know if I am sitting here typing this; if I checked my email, if I went to the grocery store yesterday, if my favorite sweater is grey, or my favorite color is green…  shouldn’t I be able to know these things without needing “proof”?  And what kind of freak sociopathic psycho tries to make you doubt these things?  I understand that many things are based on perspective, like what something feels like to another person, we could never know for certain or have thet audacity to doubt their sensations and experience.  But there are concrete, factual things that are not up for debate.  You might think my shoes are navy and I might see them as black and in relative terms we are both correct in our own right, but we can’t deny that I’m wearing shoes, right? 

What would anyone hope to gain other than perhaps a husband trying to get rid of a wife “legally” by discrediting her sanity?  Or acting in terms of self preservation maybe?  If our behavior is so outrageously embarrassing that we need to believe it didn’t exist, we don’t “do that”, or we need to be sure no one else would believe that we did/have done such things? 

This is my favorite sweater.  No, it isn’t.  I have not been tanning in over a month.  Yes, you have. We went to the movies last week.  No, we didn’t.  I’m sitting on the sofa right now.  No, you aren’t.

What???!!??  Why would anyone do this?  How very, very cruel!