Editor’s note: Here is the first of the satirical pieces by the Front Porch Talker. For background, see “My life with a sociopath,” posted yesterday. The name of the county has been changed.
By The Front Porch Talker (A.K.A. Professor Smarty-pants)
Well, I guess you have to use that word: desperate. After all, this is a Reality Show, right? And, I am a ”˜desperate Meth-lab operator’ who is from Some Special County, Washington. We are filming on-location from inside of my Meth-lab trailer, which is actually a double-wide—there’s a difference. In my double-wide is where I actually operate my Meth-lab business. And, for all intents and purposes, I am an operator. It is all authentic and Reality Show Central, as far as I am concerned.
Except for one small detail: I do have a problem with that word, ”˜desperate.’ That is, for a Reality show, ”˜desperate’ fits the concept you are going for. But, it doesn’t really fit for me. I am not a ”˜desperate’ anything. I’d prefer to call myself a highly-trained professional who operates a business, in the home, as part of the drug sales private service sector, which just also happens to be “illegal.”
That is a far cry from “desperate meth-lab operator,’ right? I would use the word: confident. As in, “Confident Meth-lab Operators,” but then why have a ”˜Reality Show’ at all, then?
I have full confidence that the drug operators like myself, in this rapidly growing industry, will eventually—I hope–be recognized and legalized along with the other “so-called” Vice Trades that enjoy those rights. That way, we do not need to be desperate at all. We could just be confident and rich, and, well, legal operators. Pardon me, but don’t we deserve this much, at least? I know that this ”˜Reality Show’ is not some intellectual discussion about: right or wrong; legal or illegal. I’ll grant you that much. But, a desperate operator I am not.
Desperate implies (or infers?) that I need this show for my self-esteem, which I don’t.
“You Don’t?”
No. I have been working at this profession for more years than I care to mention. I’ve had three husbands, two grown-kids, and even a grown grandchild whom I just adore. Whenever things go awry, I just get married again, and change my name again. I use your social-security number and even your license, if you are a female, and the authorities are never, ever suspicious. I even dye my hair blond, if necessary to look more the part.
“Does that sound desperate to you? Have I mentioned that I test more average than a Midwest housewife on those ”˜personality tests?’” That is hardly what I would call desperate.
“What did you do before you were involved in the illegal drug business? Did you have a real profession to help raise the kids?”
Yes; (close-up sincere look here) actually, I earned a good living in the Beauty and Hair industry.
You mean “Beautician School?”
Well, technically you could say that I also have a trade. I do have my ”˜Operator’s License’ in ”˜Beautician School,’ which includes ”˜Hair,” and in my case, “Fashion-nails.”
For many years, both inside and outside of the Women’s Penitentiary—where I was professionally-trained—I practiced my life-skill set in the “Fashion Industry.” In fact, I could still do your hair. Sometimes, I trim my parole officer’s hair, just to keep up appearances, so to speak.
“So, don’t you want to be legal? I mean, for your children’s sakes? Aren’t you afraid of going back to prison?” That’s a pretty heavy price to pay for manufacturing and selling highly-addictive substances—in your case, Crystal Meth, a highly toxic drug made with ingredients such as ”˜Draino,”˜ WOULD YOU WANT YOUR OWN CHILDREN ADDICTED TO SUCH SUBSTANCES? WOULDN’T BEING LEGAL BE SO MUCH EASIER FOR ALL CONCERNED?”
Again, I could but, why would I? Wouldn’t that make me ”˜desperate?’ I think I have already established that I am NOT desperate.
But, why would I? Reality Shows so much more lucrative when you’re on the traveling a circuit: I am a mega-star of the Reality Show gambit: “Desperate Meth-Lab Operators of Some Special County, Washington.”
Let me begin this interview again. My brain-cell count is not what I would wish. So, like I say, after my stint in that institution of higher-learning, prison, I then went on to work in the “specialty “sales industry. You could say that I was self-employed in this specialty sales field: the pharmaceutical drug field, with a minor in illegal drug-manufacturing. I had my own office, a handy, double-wide trailer with all the amenities of home: a stove, raw materials for cooking certain recipes, let us say, which not unlike that German sour-dough starter that’s about a thousand years’ old, my recipes are “protected,” under lock-and-key.
I also have a very old dog, who permanently resides under my trailer.
Nobody, not even my local police department, in Some Special City, Washington has even an inkling of this special recipe of mine. They do, however, wear those fancy-schmancy special germ-free one-piece white suits, the ones with the oxygen masks. And, Law Enforcement, such as they are, have special, trained attack-dogs that can “sniff-out-crime from a hundred-paces,” should they ever suspect a crime that is in progress, which it never is. Most of my employees work the night-shift.
This is, to coin a phrase: REALITY. And this is, to coin another phrase: A REALITY SHOW. Here is: THE REALITY HEADQUARTERS (where I make the mega-millions and employ many people). These are: MY REALITY RELATIVES AND FRIENDS, one of which we will have to vote out of the trailer, after tonight’s show. Here is: MY REALITY DOG, who lives under my trailer, permanently. I use only: ORGANIC MATERIALS, MADE IN AMERICA, in my manufacturing process.
More to the point is my inability to focus here, so let me begin again. I have a degree in “Fashion-Nails,” and am presently self-employed in the drug-manufacturing business. I employ all of my relatives and friends, and even have accounts with Visa and Master Card. And, it is really true what they say about American Express, or whichever one of those darned credit cards that you “shouldn’t leave home without.”
“Tell the home audience a story that illustrates this point.”
One of my best Operators tells this great story. True Story. This Operator—let’s just call her ”˜M.’ She’s the one who gave me my best ideas: changing my hair and marital status, and therefore my Identity. Anywho, “M” had a dear friend for about ten years”¦I think she was a teacher or a professor—One of those “smarty-pants,” at any rate. ”˜M’ never went to college, but she was smarter than the professor.
“How so?”
How Socatric of you to ask me that question. ”˜M’ took this teacher for all she was worth. Her retirement account, her house, her car. Everything she had.
“Didn’t that make ”˜M’ feel guilty? Or at least a little bad for the professor? How could she live with herself.”
Well, ”˜M’ wasn’t desperate, if you’re still riding that dead horse. All along, the professor—being in that Ivory Tower; I think she taught at a private Liberal Arts’ College, not unlike ”˜Beautician School.’ Anyway, the professor lost all her confidence. ”˜M’ signs-over the professor’s retirement fund, the house, the car, etc.
“How could ”˜M’ get away with that? Didn’t the police care? Identity Theft and Forgery are Major Crimes.”
Only if you get caught. Otherwise, they are simply “opportunities,” as we in the drug industry like to say. In fact, the professor freaked-out, and had panic-attacks over this thing, and she still didn’t get it that ”˜M’ was behind the whole thing. She thought ”˜M’s’ tacky family and friends were behind it. That’s a professor for you. Always thinking that people are good and have good consciences. Too many philosophy courses and not enough life!
“So, what happened to the professor, then?”
Well, the private Liberal Arts College Dean, or whatever, already has a problem with the professor because she—the professor—insists on teaching these hard books, and thinking, instead of remembering the bottom-line, TUITION, which the Dean was thinking about. So, the college Dean, seeing the professor having these panic-attacks, oh yes, and the professor had also been in a car accident because she was so upset about losing her house. So, get this: the College Dean sends the professor off on permanent disability!
“How could they get away with that? Didn’t the professor find an attorney and sue the college?
True story, I swear. So get this: the professor is on Social Security Disability now. How is she going to afford to hire an attorney? Besides, there’s more. The professor has even more panic-attacks, so a friend of hers has her committed to a Mental Hospital, because she thinks that the professor is probably Manic-Depressive. She, the friend, even goes to court to testify that the professor is a harm to herself. The professor, meanwhile, spends two weeks in the Mental Hospital. And, get this: The Psychiatrist won’t let her out of the Mental Hospital until the professor “admits” that she is Manic-depressive.
“So, does the professor admit it, so she could get out of the Mental Hospital? And what about ”˜M.’ What is ”˜M’ doing all this time?
I’ll get back to ”˜M’ in a minute. No, the professor doesn’t confess. Instead, these friends of hers from one of those anonymous twelve-step programs spring the professor from the hospital, after two weeks of this, going on a possible three-month stay in the State Mental Hospital. Is that perfect, or what?
“What is the professor doing now? Is she okay?”
“Well, it’s been almost a year since that ”˜mental hospital’ thing happened. The professor is still unemployed, still on social-security disability, and still living with the friend who committed her to the hospital in the first place. I guess she’s putting her life back together now, or whatever.’
“What about ”˜M?’ What is ”˜M’ doing now?”
”˜M’? She’s moved-on now. She tried to get married a few times, so she could change her name. She’s using the professor’s social-security card and her license. She dyes her hair blond and looks for new opportunities. And get this: she keeps changing the professor’s address back to Some Special City, Washington so she can steal the mail. She has asked the Some Special City Police Department for all of the professor’s police reports, so that when the professor requests them the police say they have already been sent. Have I mentioned that ”˜M’s’ mother was a state regulator and had access to private records?
“That sounds more like fiction to me. How could that all be true? ”˜M’ sounds pretty desperate to me.”
It’s all true, so help me God. And, like I say, desperate is not a word I would use. The professor might use that word, but you can see why. She trusted somebody who turned out to be a ”˜Meth-house Operator,’ and didn’t even know it. But that is the only desperate thing about this.
As they say: ”˜Truth is Stranger than Fiction.’ I couldn’t make-up this story, even if I tried.
Dear TB and Buttons, I think I have SEPARATED the two—the child from the Man, and I am GETTING IT is why I can finally DETACH from the MAN and still hold the MEMORY OF THE LITTLE BOY. Even if the man was a wonderful adult son (fat chance!) the LITTLE BOY would still be MIA. He is not any more. He no longer exists if that makes sense.
So, I “buried” him and the years in between when the boy morphed into the man don’t exist for me. I sure as heck do NOT know the man, he is a STRANGER to me. As time goes by the memory of the missing little boy is no longer painful and I can remember fondly the fun I had with him. Just as I fondly remember my husband who IS NO MORE on this mortal plane at least. The pain in memory is gone for both the boy and for my late husband.
There IS NO PAIN FOR THE STRANGER, FOR THE MAN.
It took me a while to get to that point, and I think Gemini is getting to that point where she is starting to disengage from the little girls she loved who are “missing” and the WOMEN that so despise her, the STRANGERS who would abuse her. They are NOT the same if we don’t let them be.
You know when I came here, I was about the only one who talked about at least the pain of losing a child to Psycopathy but there are a bunch of us here now and others with children who are potential losses, but yet to young to know. At least their mothers and fathers will be better off than we were in that at least they will be PRE-WARNED what to look for, and how to handle it. It will still be painful, but THE NOT KNOWING WHAT WE WERE DEALING WITH I think is part of the pain itself.
There are the three of us, WitsEnd, Gem, Milo, etc. and who knows how many there are that read and don’t post. How many young mothers and fathers are having to deal wiht the P-co-parent? My goodness how terrible that must be! So every one here just about has dealt with multiple Ps or the ramifications of dealing with them continually and not being able to go NC because of children or others that they love that are in the FOG or grip of the X-P.
This is NOT about “isolated” damage, it touches all the aspects of our souls and our lives.
Oxy: yes, what you say does make total sense. I have done that with my older two children. Have not made the break totally with my youngest yet. Am moving closer to it though. I have reached the point where I understand we work to save the ones we can, move on when we cannot, leaving them totally with God. It’s one reason I pray so hard to God to not allow me to go thru possibly raising the GD to only yet find myself with another one on my hands. I feel accountable for bringing these manipulators into the world, but here again, life is a series of lessons, not learned all at once. And pain does teach us many things, so I would not have myself rich, painfree, or any other thing that might feed my ego any more than life itself does, for the price is way too high. A good dose of pain, properly executed, learned and accepted yields wisdom and humility which brings us closer to God and peace in our spirits.
I do want to clarify though, God would not have us to accept pain just for the sake of it. He uses our painful mistakes to teach us, bringing good out of bad. He wants us to be happy, joyful and at peace. So, removing ourselves from these abusive relationships is what God would have us to do. Not allowing ourselves just to be victimized.
AMEN, Sister! “tribulation worketh patience” and I can testify that this HARD HEADED OLD WOMAN is still working on learning patience! LOL ((((hugs))))) AND I WANT IT RIGHT NOW!!!!!!
LOLOLOL! Funny, Oxy!
OxD, you mentioned your approach to the “burial” of the spath son by torching all but the happiest photos of him, and I’m in need of doing that – I couldn’t get it done before Mike got here, but I’ll have to do it at some point.
I’m getting to the point where severing the infant from the man can be done, without malice. What I adored as a child is not what evolved, and the two are not even remotely related.
Yeah, it’s still sad, but it’s “truth” and cannot be altered.
The sad part about people like this & their ability to continue to ruin people’s lives is that those that they devastate end up embarrassed, ashamed and their whole concept of reality is so shaken they don’t know what direction anything is anymore. Often when they try to speak up about the abuse they have or are currently enduring they are viewed as crazy and unstable. The abusers are very good at playing people and often no one believes the abused party thinking they are being malicious and mean. Sociopaths play very good victims, it often takes years before anyone figures them out and usually by then there are a lot of people who had been suspecting for awhile but no one says anything because they are afraid they will look crazy or like the person causing trouble.
It usually ends without much of a bang, everyone involved just wants to pretend it didn’t happen. The abused feel dumb that they got duped and most of them aren’t stupid people either and the sociopath just slinks away and finds a new target and for them it is a nice quiet way to do just that. Unfortunately, all the new people that this monster meets will probably never find out about any of it until they get thrown under the bus by them as well.
kookoo: VERY true!!
The P drives us into emotional hysteria from stress while they appear cool, calm and collected. From atop Mt. Olympus they push our buttons, directing our lives thru our emotions.
KooKoo:
What you say is so very right on.
THIS IS WHY…..we must ‘know’ the behaviors, study ‘our’ spaths and keep a balance AT ALL TIMES moving forward.
Develop self control and patience as we go through the ‘final phase’ with a spath…..and blindside them with counter control.
All the behaviors we have learned from them…..recognize all the buttons to push on them……all their weak points……and get accomplished whatever it is we need to, using all of the above.
If we scream….we look crazy…..if we plant the ‘seeds’…..THEY make themselves look crazy.
I will tell you though…..the above behaviors go against every natural grain in our souls……and if/when we find ourselves ‘reacting’ we must STOP, THINK and NOT react!
(It’s the stop drop and roll of dealing with a spath)
It’s natural to worry about our reputations…..but we can’t right away. We can’t ‘control’ what others think or say about us……
BUT….if we maintain the ‘decorum’ of character we have always had and shown our ‘community’…..and go covert and underground with our ‘cries’…….then they will be exposed soon enough.
AND all those peeps who doubted us……well…..do we really want them in our lives anyways?
……WE NEED TO REMOVE OURSELVES to Mt. Olympus and position ourselves in the front seat and be the ‘button pusher’ from afar.
Buttons….
Thinking of you and hoping all is going well with Jr home.