When our lives have been scathed by a psychopath, we lose who we were. We are sucked into their alternate reality and forget what helped us survive up to that point, what made us special and unique, and why we celebrated life. After the entanglement, we are nothing more than protoplasm on someone’s shoe. We don’t know up from down, north from south, or how to brush our teeth.
We will never be the same, but as ore is smelted by fire, we become, eventually, something stronger and better. If we just hang on….
I had a lot of difficult circumstances growing up. My father passed away when I was young, leaving me an only child raised by a mother who was somewhere on the “P” spectrum. I was visually impaired, and if all that wasn’t travail enough, when I became an adolescent, I realized I was attracted to other girls. But wait, that wasn’t the end of it… No, no, not nearly the end of it.
Born with a female body, but realizing some masculine essence in my soul, I knew before I had the language and the cognitive skills to understand that I was somehow at least more male than female, more masculine than feminine. Not that I didn’t have my “feminine” parts, but the bigger part of my internal self was male. When I was a child, I wanted to grow up to be a cowboy or a police officer…
So eventually, faced with various circumstances, I had to acknowledge my true self, and God alone knows how, but I had the fortitude to transition from male to female. I wasn’t courageous, I just did what I had to do to survive. And luck was with me, as it all happened rather flawlessly.
With my particular history — lack of family, prior lesbian relationships which were never blessed by societal norms, etc — I wanted nothing more than to have my own family. It was my deepest, most treasured desire. And so enters my psychopathic wife, Paula Simmons Khier, or whoever the heck she is. I was ripe for the picking, and an exquisite victim, still dreaming of rainbows, unicorns, and love everlasting.
But never mind all that… I went through “trial by fire” and escaped, albeit losing everything I’d owned, the death of my mother, and the “destruction” of my beloved dog.
After I’d escaped her grasp — or after she had discarded me, whichever you prefer — I was back in the United States, and I read everything I could find on psychopathy, re-reading books I’d already read but had not sunk in as I’d not understood that “these people” actually exist. And in my healing, I read a book: Psychopath Free. Well, it was a fairly good book, and I gave it high marks at the time.
But I joined the forum started by the author. And quite unfortunately, I encountered an unpleasant experience. A previous blog entry detailed my wife’s chameleon-like appearances, each one crafted to ensnare different victims. I posted about this (her various “looks” or appearances) on PsychopathFree.com, and was “chastised” for my use of the word “dyke.” Eventually, I was excommunicated from the forum for no good reason. So I do NOT recommend it.
Today, I was perusing the Facebook postings from my many friends, and one of them shared a blog article about the use of language in the GLBT community and elsewhere — the word “tranny” was analyzed. Well, never mind ancient, modern, or post-modern politics and politically correctness, it remains offensive to my ears, but I’m biased and involved. I do see the point, and yet language is powerful — it seals marriages and starts wars.
I sent this email to a friend:
7:13 PM (1 hour ago)
Really “deep” article if you can wade your way through it…. Relevant also for anyone who thought about feminism back in the day…
Now making the rounds on FB amongst my transgendered friends…
The article is basically talking about the use of language, and most specifically about the use of the word “tranny” which IS considered offensive by most transgendered people. But it more or less captures how outraged I felt on PF to be chastised for the use of the word “dyke” when it was MY word, and MY life lived, and I hadn’t used it in a hurtful or derogatory manner, but with clearly stated support of GLBT people (without outing myself). To precious few these day, when same-sex marriage is now legal in many states, and many of the western countries in the world is “dyke” still considered offensive. If you Google “queer studies,” you will find a plethora of universities that offer degrees with this major or minor, and long have. The word “queer” used to be *hugely* offensive, but no more. And it is the same with “dyke.” If you go to any gay pride event in any relatively major metropolitan area around the world, you will see a contingent of “dykes on bikes.” They certainly don’t take offense at the word!!
I have no clue if Peru is / was a lesbian and had a “right” to the word, and to label it verboten. But what happened to me on PF was nothing less than shameful. Because Peace IS a gay man, and I privately told him I was transgendered and had lived the majority of my life of a lesbian. As a part of the GLBT community he *should* have understood that it was MY life and MY word, and especially that I had not used it offensively in my post, taking great pains to explain that I was only trying to be descriptive of how Paula looked in that phase. I should have seen then that PF was (or was becoming) just another P fiefdom where people with real feelings don’t matter, and power and money trump all. Instead, I carried on, pouring out my heart in anguish and humor, and contributing to the forum and helping people at every turn. Never ONCE said an unkind word to anyone, nor made trouble, not was overly dramatic by revealing my anguish that made me feel suicidal.
There are probably a FEW people who still feel traumatized by the word “dyke” — but if anyone has a right to be traumatized by the word, it’s ME. I was called it many times. In one infamous instance, I was leaving the house where I lived with my mother when I was about 16 or 17 years old, walking toward the convenience store where I bought Dr. Pepper and candy bars, and three younger boys in the neighborhood saw me and called me a dyke. It so happened that when they shouted at me and taunted me, I noticed a Coke bottle lying on the ground by the curb. I those days, they were still made of glass…. And I was much braver in those days, and still believed in justice. So I picked up that glass Coke bottle and I shouted at the boys, “Come here and say that to my face!” They skittered off quickly, and I briefly chased after them with the Coke bottle in my hand. I doubt that they ever used that word lightly again. So, I took back the word for myself long before “dykes on bikes” and queer studies. It was HARD back then, because your life was literally on the line. The word means nothing more than “apple” or “gizmo” to me now. But I bore the pain of it. So Peru had NO right to correct MY use of the word I’d lived with and been taunted with. And PF had no right in banning me.
I just wish I’d had the balls to stand up for myself with Paula like I used to have on occasion when I was younger with the bullies who never gave me peace. I want to see that old “me” again. I was a fighter and a crusader. Now, I’m a squishy pathetic mess. But the same passion still burns within me. This world ain’t what it ought to be, and I’d like to make a difference. God, Jesus, mother of Jesus, and Buddha, grant me the strength to find again what I used to be. I would not be alive now without that spark. Paula took what little was left of that spark and snuffed it out, or tried to. I’ll be damned to hell if I let her. I don’t care how fucking much I hurt. I will not roll over and kill myself regardless of how much pain I feel. I’ll endure the pain until I draw my last breath, never giving up, even if I do NOTHING but sit and smoke cigarettes until death takes me.
Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? I was born with a fire I can’t explain, and somewhere under the disappointment, anguish, heartache, and despair, that flame still exists. I have to find my way back to me, or the new me. I care about Truth, Love, and Justice. I always did and I always will, and that part of me isn’t dead. I just have to find it again. And so do you!
Here’s a song by Annie Lennox to help you cry over what’s been lost and what you remember.