unrestrained jane

digital holding tank for memories that hijack my thoughts

One Year No Contact: A Snapshot of the Chaos That Once Was

One year of zero contact with the psychopath con artist (literally, not figuratively). That’s one year ago now, since I “woke up” and protected myself and my family from the man who deceived, depleted and abused us so coldly and calculatingly. I’m finally eligible for divorce; this will happen as soon as I can afford the associated financial costs. 

In that year I’ve healed physically from his abuse, and I’ve largely healed emotionally, but still won’t ever see the world the same way. The damage is lasting in some ways… mainly trust issues. Trusting others and trusting my own judgment will never be the same. 

I haven’t said a lot about what happened, but to celebrate this day, I offer you a glimpse into what I survived at the hands of this one psychopath…

I’ve known him since we were teens. I never had reason to question the things he’s shared with me about his many unfortunate experiences and his many amazing accomplishments. We take the things our friends tell us at face value… at least, I used to. By this time last year I had shockingly uncovered that almost everything he’d told me over the years was a lie of some sort. It all fell apart for him because I persisted and wouldn’t ignore that voice in me that told me to survive. 

In September of 2012 he arrived, from his hometown across the country, on my doorstep, with two suitcases and a backpack. He claimed he’d been drugged and raped at a swingers party and that it’d been arranged by his girlfriend of 5 years, with whom he had two step-children that came out of two separate affairs she’d had while they were together. He claimed he’d contracted HIV from the rape and that his father, who allegedly abused him sexually as a young boy, had banished him from the family home for being an “aidsfaggot” and that his girlfriend beat him and his mother up and abducted the kids that he had sole custody of. He was still on WCB from a forklift accident he had the year before. He was a mess and humbly asked for a couch to take a break for a few weeks while he figured out his next move. I took him in. 

Four months later I’d somehow fallen in love with him. It was magical… he was *perfect* for me in every way. I didn’t care if he had HIV, or was hurt and couldn’t work and had step-kids he was fighting for, etc. The baggage  didn’t matter. We were soulmates. It felt like I’d fallen in love with my best friend. I’d somehow fallen so deeply that I agreed to a rush wedding in April 2013, just four months after we started dating. It was one of the happiest days of my life (at the time).

In the past year and a bit, it was revealed (with undeniable proof for each fact) that pretty much everything was a lie…

– The HIV was a lie. He maintained that lie while I had to go on anti-retrovirals for six weeks due to a condom break a week after our wedding, and then again six months later when I was cleaning and stuck myself with a used needle (I had no idea he was using needles in the house!!!) He never had HIV, and he knew it. He went to great lengths to fake it and to milk as much compassion, opportunity, and pity as he could. 

– The allegations that his father sexually abused him were a lie. The accusations and events he put his poor family through are bone-chilling. I’ve seen very colorful medical, psych and juvenile criminal records dating back to his childhood. He’d been diagnosed by one psychiatrist at an institution he was at as a psychopath as a teen. He put his parents and sibling through sheer hell. 

– That his step-children aren’t biologically his and arose out of infidelity was a lie. They are his biological children; he’s a deadbeat dad. He threatens to abduct them or harm their mom, and keeps her living in fear. 

– That his children’s mother beat him and his mother was a lie; in fact, he struck her, more than once. He tried to press charges against her, making her life hell. She’s still afraid of him; as am I, so I don’t blame her. 

– That he got raped at a swingers party was an elaborate lie to set the stage for the HIV lie so he Gould gain pity and opportunity. 

– That he had been clean of hard drugs for many, many years was a lie… he hid a painkiller addiction that turned out to be an IV heroin addiction (when his crazy does shine through, he blames it on “addiction” and “PTSD” to encourage pity for him). 

– That he has ever had cancer was a lie. He faked liver cancer about a decade ago. And is currently faking advanced liver disease and interferon treatment. He even made conflicting statements in the media this past Xmas when he was featured on the local news, HuffPost and local newspapers (for begging for food via Reddit). He later got called out on Reddit and subsequently largely deleted (or set to private) his previously large web presence complete with various fundraising campaigns (all for his own pocket money). 

– That he has the capacity for empathy or has ever truly cared for or loved another human being was and is a lie. He is a predator through and through. There is no cure. 

The list is not exhaustive. Not even close. He crashed my car, strained relationships with and stressed out the kids, smashed electronics, ruined my house, destroyed friendships, isolated me, drained my bank and credit, made false claims to doctors and police, berated me with abuse daily, and tried to destroy my reputation. He *almost* broke my will to live. The list goes on…

THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU. IT COULD HAPPEN TO ANYONE. Trust me, I am the last person who anyone thought would be duped by a psychopath. I’m experienced, jaded as fuck, educated, and intelligent But it still happened. 

I am now one year free. He has a criminal record for assault and breaching probation by violating the no-contact condition. And he legally cannot come near me or my children. I have regained myself, and my life. 

I share this because it happened. I share this because my story is valid and because I AM NOT ASHAMED and I believe our society needs more awareness about psychopathy and sociopathy, as well as domestic abuse in general. 

Questions, comments, or sharing your experiences are most welcome. This was written from a place of healing, not anger. I’ve reclaimed my peace and strength. You can too. 


(written March 7, 2015; picture added January 4, 2017)

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This. Exactly this. Except some of them are dead. 😉

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” ― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life This is where I am stuck. I want to tell you all about it, but they’re still alive.

https://lorikidwell.wordpress.com/2015/11/06/mantra/

The words don’t always come, but the feelings always do

In seven weeks, my sociopath husband will have been dead for one full year.

You’d think I’d feel safe. Well, I’m not going to lie to you, I did cancel my alarm monitoring service many months ago, and the anxiety has lessened incredibly. The kids feel safer. His bio-kids are safe. Their mother doesn’t have to worry. His mother and father can get off the roller coaster. Lots of worry was put to rest. The sense of desperation left.

Having said all that, I can promise you that I am not 100% free, yet. I still have nightmares. I still doubt my decisions and judgement. I have horrendous PTSD and it has bled into all areas of my life. Work, parenting, socializing, sex, intimacy, and everything in between. 

I don’t think I will ever be entirely free. A little part of me will always cringe, wince, have nightmares, doubt my judgment and second guess everything. At least I don’t fear for my life anymore, at his hands anyway. 

I’m still not done wading through the wreckage he left behind. Collectors still call me. He still gets mail here. There’s death certificates to be corrected (spelling error and address error), and I have to figure out if there’s a widow certificate or how that works. And he left me in a royal clusterfuck with tax arrears that came long before we met. It’s all on a shelf. In a box. Where it sits. And will continue to sit, for now.

I think I mentioned before that the one thing that did stop was that I could finally stop monitoring his schemes online to keep my finger on the pulse in case he was plotting to come back for us, as he threatened so many times. He’s not coming back. Ever. I saw it with my own eyes. I had to. 

The final autopsy report is still not in, but the coroner confirmed it was diverted methadone and oxycodone, in addition to his huge prescribed methadone dose. An overdose, at his own hands. I know it wasn’t on purpose because he left his computer on, logged onto everything. His narcissist and paranoid sociopathic ways would never permit him to allow that kind of invasive background to be known about him upon his demise. No, it was a  accident. It just finally caught up with him. Nobody was surprised. 
I am one of the lucky ones. I got out after only 10 months of marriage together (after 18 years of friendship). He died one year later, almost to the day.

He changed my life forever; my eyes are wide open now. 

pulse check

Still here. Still processing. Still kicking ass. More when it comes. Soon, I hope.

Big Eyes

The true story of Margaret Keane was turned into a movie, last year, by Tim Burton. It is a true story about a single mom artist who marries a perfect seeming guy within a ridiculously short time of meeting him. He seems like a dream come true until he takes credit for all of her work, holding her hostage, forcing her to produce. She uncovers more and more lies and it only gets worse.

Walter Keane has clearly got NPD or falls somewhere in the psycho/sociopathy scale. The court scene wherein he represents himself makes that clear.  But she’s strong and her story is another version of our story, the story you all know. He died lying, 30 years later, bitter and still living in a web of lies. And she thrives, still painting today

I recommend the movie.

BUT I FEEL LIKE A FOOL !

This is one of my biggest healing stumbling blocks.

Why is it so hard to for people to support a DV victim?

Say no to DV

What is most shocking to me is how people who talk up reams on facebook on behalf of Nirbhaya and scores of other victims of rape and other heinous crimes still regard domestic violence as a softer issue.

Even if the suspect a woman is being abused, they would rather lean back than move forward to help. I guess it is all talk with such people. They would rather do their armchair activism than any real useful activity.

This ad by the salvation army uses the latest “black and blue” phenomenon on the Internet to highlight the issue to domestic violence:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2015/03/06/the-salvation-armys-powerful-new-ad-on-domestic-violence-puts-thedress-debate-in-a-new-light/

It is an awesome ad. I wish there were more such ads  to also highlight the other forms of domestic violence including emotional and sexual abuse. The scars that are not visible on the skin are still there.

The trauma is real. And why is it that you won’t…

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All sorts of effed up

Could you imagine, assembled in a room, all of the different people a sociopath or psychopath has kept so neatly segregated, so individually groomed with custom information that plays to their specific vanities and insecurities, so painstakingly compartmentalised? 

What would happen if they started talking to each other? What would happen if the sociopath/psychopath was not even there to do damage control? Not one bit. What if they were not talking about just anything, but had gathered for the express purpose of sharing their experiences and intimate feelings about the sociopath/psychopath? 

My husband (with whom I’d successfully maintained no contact with for one full year) died a few days ago. Since then I’ve had some of the most incredibly awkward conversations. People he’s known for 20 years have said to me that they are finally realizing that he was never who they thought he was and experiencing that eerie chill down their spine. It is the most surreal thing. 

His memorial and his funeral are going to be… interesting? I’m kind of afraid to attend, but that’s another post in itself. 

I’m starting to find out more and more about the insanity and ridiculousness he told people, not only about me, but about everything. Cleaning out his tiny apartment was intense. I cried, again, for the millionth time since I broke free last year. It’s over. It’s really over. Except it’s not, not quite yet. 

I just got the knock…

… police came to my door. My was-soon-to-be-ex husband died in his sleep last night. I’m in shock. It’s all over; he can’t hurt anyone anymore. I’m saddened by the tragedy that was his life and death. As next of kin, a widow, I have to make arrangements. I authorized the autopsy. I’m in shock. My emotions are all over. 

Snakes in Suits

I’m currently devouring Snakes in Suits by Paul Babiak & Robert Hare. I am thoroughly engrossed. Can’t get enough of this subject; it’s fascinating. That’s it for now, back to the book.

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