Editor’s note: A Lovefraud reader, we’ll call her Betty, sent her story. It’s a tale of a run-in with a female psychopath who likes to destroy people for the fun of it.
I got divorced and moved from Texas to California. I was 45 years old, and was hoping to transition from my career as an RN. I’d worked in the newborn nursery and the increasing numbers of drug dependent newborns were breaking my heart — I was experiencing burnout. I tried physical rehabilitation for adults, but that too brought me in contact with awful suffering, and I didn’t have enough to give my patients. I had a painful divorce and a painful career, and made the decision to pull myself together and start over. That’s when I met the person I think is a female psychopath.
I interviewed in the art history department of a large university, with the then-graduate adviser, Dr. Wilma (not her real name). I didn’t understand then how fragile I was, but I feel certain she knew in an instant. The fixed stare was there — I thought at the time, “What an intent, alert, person with so much energy!” I felt flattered that she seemed so interested in me. Writing that, I still feel a creepiness, sense of shame at being taken in, and a curling fear in the pit of my stomach.
Perfect victim
I craved attention, though I would have denied it. Looking back at my life, I can see how I trained over the course of it to be a perfect victim for abuse. My dad was an alcoholic, the mean drunk kind, and my mom was so gently needy. The overall feeling in our house was one of walking on eggshells, and the message to me was, “try hard and fail” because my older brother was the “successful, responsible child” so that left me with the “failure” role. My first husband was emotionally distant, and so was my second — I poured myself into those relationships, and of course, I cared deeply while each of them did not, and the colder they were, the harder I tried, and tried. And I found a job just as destructive and abusive as those personal relationships. So when I interviewed for the art history department, I badly needed some confidence and a sense of achievement. I’d also had a couple of bouts of situational depression, following the death of my parents, and after getting divorced.
Dr. Wilma seemed drawn to me at once: She’d call me to come in early to her office, heap praise on me to other teachers, strategize with me over my academic future (she felt I should get a doctorate and teach at university, “Just like me”) — she acted like a close friend and benefactor, and we’d only just met. Deep down inside, I was uncomfortable. I was making straight “A’s” but I’d done that routinely as an adult, and I genuinely loved art history, and found tremendous pleasure in studying it and discussing it — but still, I was a beginner in the field, and I couldn’t get over the fact that she was talking to me as though I was a peer. The other feeling was slower to surface: She seemed to be looking at me in a calculating, almost predatory way, and it seemed strangely almost sexual and at the same time, had the stamp of ownership. I can’t express it any better than that. She’d compliment me, but then say things like, “You walked into my office with interest, but no real academic talent, but I thought, why not? I’ll give her a class! See how far you’ve come!” Not an insult based in reality, but not a compliment based in reality, either, because I was a solidly good student, and I had achieved a nursing education and professional license, and a bachelor’s in psychology after that.
My mentor
Soon she invited me to walk her dogs with her in the mornings, and I slowly began to see how controlling she was. The animals were hyper and had to be constantly engaged or they’d get into trouble. I’m a cat person, so I didn’t understand you have to constantly stimulate and over stimulate most dogs to get them to be that hyperactive. She’d ask my opinions, but then she’d make “suggestions,” which meant “do it or else.” Over the next few years, I committed to specializing in art history, on her appraisal of me as an “excellent student who’s going to make a wonderful teacher,” I took on the burden of student loans — and I put my Texas nursing license on retirement, and didn’t activate it in California or take continuing education in that area to keep the license active. Dr. Wilma let me know that nursing wasn’t really a profession, and with a bright future as an academic, I didn’t need it. I had a “mentor” now to take me over the road of thesis writing and guide me into a wonderful teaching career.
I was really so stupidly, inexcusably naive! She told me what I wanted to hear — that I’d have a new career if I continued to work hard, and that I had a mentor I could depend on to help guide me through the intricacies of academia. Exam after exam came back marked “A,” with praise written in the margins for my “fine work.” Papers, too, received “A’s,” and the criticism lead me to believe my writing skills were well up to standard, and constantly improving, as I was striving to do. She wanted me to visit her office almost daily, wrote long and frequent emails, she’d phone me at home for lengthy calls — and one day, I began to feel (though I shoved that down quickly as well) that I was almost being courted in a creepy way…and it felt weird, off and not right somehow. But how could I complain? She was charming, so eager to “help” me find my way, I felt at a disadvantage academically and I worked frequently twelve hours a day writing and reading, trying to master my chosen field of study. I didn’t want other students to know she “favored” me so extensively because I’ve always earned my way. I felt ashamed at possibly taking advantage.
Always a home
She invited me to her house, and told me, “You’ll always have a home here,” and again, it felt off… it was too much, too soon. In addition, there was something there in that the words didn’t match the lack of emotion in her voice and in her expression — her words seemed somehow rehearsed. But how could I be so ungracious? I so longed for kindness, and I so appreciated it…my eyes welled up with tears … and she smiled. It was not a kind smile, but a one-sided curl of a lip, a cruel smile that didn’t reach her eyes. As I mentioned, I have a bachelor’s in psychology, but even at that lower level without clinical study except in nursing, how could I not have known?
She wanted me to house sit and watch her dogs for a week while she and her husband went on holiday. She’d pay me $300, and having put every penny into school, I needed the job. By this time, I’d finished all the bachelor’s level courses and was well into graduate level work — I only had a year and a half left before I could get my Master’s and could begin my dream of teaching art history in community college. I was also $40,000 in debt with student loans.
The dogs were a nightmare to care for and had to be watched every minute because they were so hyper they’d tear up the house and garden. Now I understand they’d been trained this way in response to their owner. I didn’t get much sleep because they required so much attention, but they were fed, watered, exercised, groomed — in response to the 10 pages of instructions she issued, and her house was cleaned, laundry done, and everything left as found. I’d been instructed not to wait for the them to arrive home, but to leave the evening of their arrival, two hours before they returned.
Flier in the driveway
Three days later, I got a phone call from Dr. Wilma. I was instructed to come to her office very early the first day of school following break. I went into her office, and she asked me to wait there while she went to her car and brought her dogs in (she always brought her dogs to school in spite of rules of no dogs on campus). She brought the dogs in, she looked at her watch, she closed the door and I can only say that she transformed entirely right before my eyes. I’ve worked in psychiatric lock up wards in the course of my nurse’s training, and I thought I’d seen pretty much everything, but I saw a self-possessed, controlled and controlling, smooth, charming, poised academic turn into a snarling, spitting monster within literally a second. I feared for my life, sat in a chair backed into a corner, the dogs now cowering and whining at my feet. She advanced on me, screaming at the top of her lungs, “You betrayed me! I can’t believe I brought that (meaning me) from my university into my house!” It seems I had left a newspaper, one of the little local fliers, in her driveway and not collected it and placed it on her kitchen table with the rest of the mail. She went on for a full fifteen minutes, screaming that I was “crazy” (I had confided to her about my instances of depression), and more abuse that I’ve frankly and thankfully blocked out, because what I remember of what she shrieked at me was horrible and I’ll never repeat most of it to anyone. My hand shook, but I wrote out a check for the $300 and returned every bit of her money. It was only my training, and probably experience as an abused child, that allowed me to remain calm, size up the room, locate something that could be utilized as a defensive weapon should the need arise, and calculate that I could fit though the window. She was physically blocking the door. I heard my own voice from far away say absolutely calmly, “I AM leaving now,” and I will never know how I got up on shaking legs and made it through the door.
Swore to ruin me
She swore to ruin me, and she did. Her co-workers and underlings (the department is small and only had two other full-time professors) were so under her thumb and so like her that there was no place to go in the department. I couldn’t get an appointment with the dean to state my case or make a complaint or appeal — I was told I could only see her with Dr. Wilma’s approval, “She’s a very nice lady,” the dean’s secretary said, “I’m certain she’ll help you sort out whatever it is.” Camping out in the dean’s office didn’t yield an appointment, either. The Ombudsman promised help — only to reveal straight away in the meeting that, “I have no real power here and all records of this meeting are the property of the university.” I had taken my qualifying examination, the last step before thesis writing, and waited for 8 weeks to get my results, and still couldn’t find out if I’d passed or failed. Appointments weren’t kept, then they were rescheduled and not kept again. Finally, around the tenth week, the Ombudsman called me for a meeting with faculty. Dr.Wilma had brought the other two full-time professors with her, and they were all in attack mode. For two and a half hours, I was soundly verbally abused and called names — the Ombudsman gave up trying to control or run the meeting, and exhibited shaking hands. “You can’t just pay for a degree — you have to earn it. We owe you nothing — it’s 100 percent all on you now…What do you want from us?” Dr. Wilma demanded. “I want to know the status of my qualifying examination,” I replied, “No one will tell me.” “Well I’ve just decided right now, this minute: you fail!”
After they left, and I could finally cry, the Ombudsman said she’d only done counseling of sexual abuse patients, and this was her first case in an academic setting, and she said she’d never seen anything like it. It left me bereft of my belief in the virtues of the university, of learning, and to a very great extent, in human goodness. I felt my insides crumble that day. I was flat out. I broke.
I tried going to another university, driving three hours to another school. I did well in my classes and applied for acceptance in their graduate program. I was told it looked good because my transcript and submitted paper and interview had all been promising. But I’d told them the basics of the truth when the committee chair asked why I left the previous university. They phoned, spoke to Dr. Wilma, and you can guess the rest. After what I was told by a professor was the longest meeting in their history of considering a candidate (three hours), they decided not to believe my performance, the evidence of my character, my skills, or interest in art history and love of education — they believed Dr. Wilma when she told them I was crazy.
Crushed
That happened two years ago. I’ve been deeply depressed and felt worthless and hollow since. It truly crushed me, though I wish it hadn’t. I’m broke, and it left me $45,000 in student debts and no degree, so I cannot teach and have nothing to show for a tremendous amount of work. There was no appeal at the school, and lawyers apparently don’t take cases like this, especially on contingency. Reactivating my RN license and bringing it current in California would be tremendously expensive. I began to come out of shock very slowly, and began to meditate, face and recognize the pattern of being a victim — not that I ever deserved this situation, but how I was in fact an ideal candidate for it. I processed the pain of being the child of an alcoholic, an abused spouse, and having survived burnout from a tough profession. I grieved for my lost financial security, my almost new career and how much I truly loved teaching, I grieved for the good will that died in my soul when those three women worked me over in the Ombudsman’s office while the Ombudsman (a certified counselor) stood by and let it happen. I grieved for myself that I didn’t stand up more and tell them off! That I wanted something so badly that I allowed myself to be demeaned by three ethically deficit “teachers.”
I began Tibetan Buddhist meditation, and sought to learn to forgive. I believe in the healing power of forgiveness, but I’m stumped because I’ve seen something evil. I can only forgive as an intellectual act — my spirit is stuck and it’s very painful. I’ve cried buckets of tears and “LET GO” over and over, and I will do until I have healed. I now trust myself to build a new life, but at 55 years, it’s going to be hard to get a job where I’ve no experience, especially in this economy. I could have taught for a good 20 years, paid my student debt, and provided for myself, but things look bleak now.
Armed with knowledge
I know that there are so many people who have lost so much more than I have. I know it, reading these posts, I realize it I’m actually lucky because it could have been so much worse. If nothing else, I am now armed with knowledge, and can hopefully walk on by the next ruinous person I encounter without letting them into my life. But I will always be shaken by this devastation — not by a lover or a spouse, but by a trusted, respected, and admired teacher. And I still feel ashamed, and like it was somehow my fault — until I read your posts.
Thanks you, Donna, for listening to my story. It’s healing somehow, and it helps me to know that I will recover from this. It has given me understanding and compassion for those who live with this these fundamentally lacking individuals. I so admire their strength and courage to survive and rebuild their lives, and also the genuine love and support evidenced on your site.
Learn more: Comprehensive 7-part recovery series presented by Mandy Friedman, LPCC-S
Lovefraud originally posted this article on March 4, 2009.
How knowing the truth about sociopaths changes everything
”Now that I think about it, it makes such sense they’re mimes, without conscience.”
A good way to spot an S is that they’ll mimic the person they’re dealing with. They know that people tend to like others who are like themselves. That’s why I always analyze a person’s temperament ”“ I want to see behavior that ’jives’.
“PTSD”
I shouldn’t talk trash about EMDR. It did seem to work for me. Learning to completely physically relax was also a good skill to learn. I hunted down a PTSD sourcebook and did some scanning, typing, journaling ”“ using ideas that worked for me. Exercise is important. Knowing myself, I’ll burn out working out to exhaustion, so I do a muscle group each day for about 30 minutes instead, and I look forward to it. The daily endorphin and results keep me going strong.
“She seemed to be looking at me in a calculating, almost predatory way, and it seemed strangely almost sexual and at the same time, had the stamp of ownership.”
I’ve worked with two female S’s, and knew two borderline types, and got this same feeling from all four, behavior which stood out markedly from every other woman I’ve known. I’m curious if this is some kind of a mimic tactic common to the type? A way to lure one in? Or are sociopaths just that sexual?
About destroying things, my ex had a dog that he got as a puppy, half dobie, half shepherd, a sweetie or would have been except for him. Anyway, anytime I stayed there or she stayed at my place, she ate shoes, jewelry, and she climbed furniture to try to get things I put out of her way. I lost two pairs of prescription glasses.
He just shrugged, like it was an act of God. Nothing was his responsibility. In fact, he used to joke about it.
But his stuff? It was like it was an extension of his body. Not that he took particularly good care of anything, but if anyone else damaged anything, if it was in his power to punish that person, he did. Otherwise he raged, totally out of control.
But there was something else that he did in his writing. Some version of me showed up in several of his stories. Surreally wierd, seen through his eyes. Or just insulting. There was one, a middle-aged divorcee vacationing in Central America, that he characterized so cruelly and irritated me so much that I decided to write her a back story. And I wrote a whole separate short story about her, the story of her divorce, what she was doing in Central America.
I thought he would have a stroke. Didn’t I know how disrespectful this was. How I was infringing on his artistic something or other. Had I no recognition of his boundaries? What was wrong with me? I’m sorry I can’t draw a picture of this short guy stalking around like Adolf Hitler, shouting at me about how I was breaking the rules.
And you know, maybe I was breaking the rules. Maybe it was disrespectful and intrusive on his creative process. But it was one of those times when I realized that I just didn’t care. He didn’t play by rules based on respect, and he didn’t get the benefit of them. As we got closer and closer to the end of the relationship, I cared less and less about whether I was making him suffer. I didn’t look for opportunities to hurt him, but if I did, too bad.
Later, when I got an online magazine to remove a story of his they’d published, I could imagine him stalking around , kicking and breaking things. I threatened the magazine with legal action, because the story had my name in it and reproduced much of our life together in California. It was the second time, he’d used one of his stories to send a message to me after we broke up. The first time it was annoying, but at least it had another woman’s name on the character. This time, I drew the line. If he didn’t like it, too bad.
Finally, since I seem to be telling a lot of truth here lately, I did something else that may get me seriously boinked by Oxy. But I decided that if I had to go through so much suffering in getting better, he was going to go through it with me. I’ve told you that I wrote through my recovery. A great deal of it was thinking things through by talking to him. In the first year and a half I think I sent about 600 e-mails to him. All of them ending with the warning that they were not an invitation to contact me, and if he did, he’d regret it.
He had the opportunity to read all of my growing awareness that he was a sociopath, my anger, my burning of whatever of his I found here, the connections between him and my father, the getting better, the ultimate scorn I felt toward him, and after that the pity. Did he read them? Who knows. I know he read some of them, because references appeared in his stories.
It may sound like we were still engaged. I’m sure a therapist would have said so, or some of the people here. But the truth is that I was engaged. I wasn’t finished with him until I was finished with him. And until then, I had no intention of collaborating with his idea that I was just going to disappear into the sunset. In whatever way i could manage it, he was going to live with what he created.
At one point, a mutual friend told me that I made him feel bad. My response was, “Not bad enough.” Not bad enough to offer to pay back any of the money. Or apologize for the damage. Or write one of his stories that acknowledged a relationship that took him from being a scraggly ex-drunk with skeletal professional skills to a well-dressed, well-traveled, socially polished professional, who not incidentally finally had the financing to do the writing he published after we split up.
And don’t think I wasn’t worried about repercussions. I kept my doors locked, and didn’t go out on my property at night for a long time. At long as I was such a loose cannon, he had a lot more to lose than he’d lost already. And still does, for that matter.
There are many layers to my relationship with him now. For the most part, I use him as an example of something I need to remember about the world, that there are tragically crippled people who are like rabid dogs, too dangerous to help. But I also maintain another relationship with him, as creditor. I don’t expect to see anything back from what I invested in him and his future, but he has a judgment against him in my personal court of law. It’s not going away. And that will mean whatever it means going forward, depending on what I decide about how much of a threat he is to me or anyone I care about.
Does this mean I have baggage? Possibly. Does it disqualify me from a future relationship? I don’t think so. I think there’s a part of me that recognizes that I can be a killer to deal with a killer. Because I think this is the bottom line with sociopaths. We can dance around it, and talk about them being hurtful and not having conscience. But every person here is fighting to recover his or her life. I don’t minimize this.
This is beyond anger. This is where anger goes when it cools off in an empowered personality. I hope I never have to do that kind of damage, because it would damage me. But power carries responsibilities; responsibilities carry costs and sacrifices, as well as benefits. I regard becoming prepared to defend myself and what I care about as one of the burdens of growing up.
AFter my husband’s accidental death I had PTSD and my son D did so much that neither of us could READ…not even a sentence, because by the time we got to the end of it, we forgot what the first was about. Ditto watching a TV show or movie.
My “Usual” reading speed is 1000 + words per minute on most non-technical books, it got down to 2 or 3 words per minute with ZERO retension. I had to start reading aloud in order to start to grasp any content, but am back now to pretty much where I was before the PTSD. My short term memory is like Swiss cheese though.
Before the PTSD of the accident, I could recall VERBATUM any conversation I ever had with anyone. Now, I still tell people things and don’t remember doing that, or they tell me things and I have no memory of them doing that. My egg donor used my “insanity” against me, and as they (the Ps) turned up the stress on my already frazzled mind, I got to the point I WAS CRAZY—if that means “insane” and not knowing what the heck was going on inside me or outside me. Questioning my own sanity. My own reality.
“Losing my memory” was terrifying to me, I had always been able to count on my brain, my mind, now I couldn’t count on it, I was terrified! Cut off my legs, both of them, and cut off my arms and poke my eyes out, but DON’T let me lose my mind!
The EMDR (rapid eye movement therapy) helped so much to disconnect the pain from the memories. The accident was bad enough, but the continual attacks of the Ps while I was already down, the trivalizing of my pain from the loss of my husband, “Okay, he’s dead, it’s long enough now that you should get over it and go on doing things for me.”
I think I got QUICKER results from that than anything else I had done—medication and talk therapy both. I highly recommend it to anyone with PTSD in addition to any other therapy you have used. It isn’t a long term therapy either, it doesn’t have to go on for years and years or even months and months. I only had about 3 months of it.
SOS you are totally right about exercise too, it does help burn off the stress hormones, and getting out in the sunlight for some period of time each day as well. I can absolutely tell when I have not had enough sunlight cause I get cranky CRANKY. Eating well, sleeping regular hours, exercise, cutting down on any excess amounts of alcohol or other “habits” is also a good thing as well. Just being “healthy” and doing GOOD things for yourself will help all around health and that includes mental health. I do know that REST and LOW STRESS things are super important too. It takes time to recover the ENERGY RESERVES that were depleted by the “Psychopath wars.”
I was lucky that it wasn’t a romantic partner. Reading Rune, Matt, and Is opn — I feel devastated but I KNOW it has to be so much more intensely personal when that person was your partner. You guys have guts.
Any legal or strategic advice is welcome — I’m a novice (for now…) In any case, the discussion here is priceless because I’m learning a lot that’s helping me realize what actually happened.
Rune, that was profound! What you wrote about the socialization process is amazing and makes total sense. I also wonder if some of the dynamics you see in an alcoholic family wouldn’t fit into that also. For example, as a kid you’re taught never to contradict the alcoholic : innocent questions like “Dad, are you drunk?” will bring no end of retribution raining down. So I think those of us who grow up with that tend to develop blind spots to certain behaviors, and a sociopath would be quick to pick up on that unwary prey aspect. Put you at ease, move in…I’m still seeing Dr. W’s direct look of ownership when she sized me up (I don’t know what else to call it). I suspect you’re right, Rune: I didn’t “make” Dr. Wilma do anything, and I didn’t make her angry. Worst thing I might have done was trip the wire, but she was going to do something once she’d engaged with me as a target. I can’t imagine dealing with TWO of these, especially one after the other, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Matt, most of us just want to be accepted and loved for who we are. You were being a loving man, but he wasn’t anything like that. You said, “Time goes by, the charms fade and their looks go, and the supply of toys dries up. Of course, as time goes by, their old toys fall apart. I think at the end when the last toy vanishes, in their minds, so do they.” I suspect they don’t have a real self, so all they can do is deconstruct others. They graze their way through people, like locusts stripping everything bare. I’m glad you didn’t get consumed, and like me, You’re Here! Which is probably the best revenge: a balanced, productive life, well lived.
Is opn: PTSD sucks, and I’m glad you’re getting better and stronger. I was sitting meditation a few days ago, and I’m still sort of freaked by this, but the anxiety just left. Who knew? It may not last, but I’m not turning it down while it’s here. Peace is pretty cool.
DEar Kathy,
I didn’t read your post until I had posted the one above…I guess we posted over each other.
NOPE, I won’t “BOINK” you for that one. It is NOT a decision I would have made (the e mails) because I know from EXPERIENCE that what you put in print can come back to bite you in the arse.
Before all this with my P-son came to light, I wrote him daily, with all the details with my emotional pain of the PTSD, and the pain of the X-BF-P, and the problems I was having with my egg donor, I BARED MY SOUL TO HIM, so what did he do? He took those letters I wrote in my pain, and used excerpts to convince my egg donor that I was crazy and that I was “against” her, that he would protect her from me. Yea, right!
As far as being prepared to defend myself—well, I made that decision a long time ago—and while having to do violence to someone else would be difficult, I don’t think I would hesitate if I thought I was in danger, or someone else was in danger.
Making up your mind that you WILL protect yourself well in ADVANCE of ever having to DO so, is a good idea. My X-SIL was an anti-gun nut case. My XH asked her one day if someone was coming in the window to kil her child if she would shoot him, and she said “Yes, of course” and then there was a second guy behind him, “well, yes” and so on up to where the bodies were piled chin deep on a tall giraffe—and of course he made his point. You do what you have to do to survive if you are in danger or your child is in danger. You do not passively lie down and wait for someone to kill you.
RESOLVING that before the time comes that you have to make a decision NOW or die if you wait is a good thing.
As we regain our strength and our resolves to protect ourselves, we become more confident.
Each of us heals in a unique way, yet in some ways, it is the “same.” Just as the Ps are all different, yet in some ways alike. We are all different, yet in some ways alike too.
DEfending ourselves and being good to ourselves is a good thing. Being LESS “self sacrificing” is also a good thing I think too. Being willing to stand up for what we believe and not let someone else convince us we are crazy…i.e. validating our own sense of reality, even if we are the ONLY person who does validate it.
They create the chaos to distract us from the reality we see. It is hard to keep your mind on draining the swamp if there are 1000 little alligators nipping at your knees, ankles and then someone comes up and sets your pants on fire. Chaos is their friend.
I wouldn’t have chosen your e mail blitz, Kathy, but if it helped you to focus on your healing, I say more power to ya! My writing consisted of coming here. It served the same purpose as your e mails to him. I also (and Aloha said she did the same thing) “talked” to them as I drove my car (ALONE) and screamed at them and raged at them, and tried to convince them….all to as much avail as if I had been talking to them face to face, but it did help ME. LOL
Thanks, Oxy. I felt after I wrote it that the language might be too strong. But I knew that you, of all the people here, would understand exactly what I was talking about. There is actually one advantage of having your life threatened by a psychopath. After that, you understand where it can go.
As far as the e-mail blitz goes, I was in a particular situation where I felt safe in doing that. I doubt it would be a good idea for anyone else.
One of the aspects of my situation, which is somewhat true for a lot of people here but I’m not sure if they realize it as clearly as I did, was that I had all the power in this relationship except for one thing. He had the power over the relationship itself. I controlled everything he wanted. And after he was gone, I had the power to seriously screw up his life, and still do.
He can annoy me. Belittle me. Call me crazy. The stuff he did before. But the only thing that gave him power before was me. On his own, he’s plausible, but not particularly credible if the veneer is only slightly scratched. If he wanted to get into any kind of legal or credibility-related battle with me, I’d sustain damage, but nothing like what would happen to him.
And this is actually a situation that is true for a lot of people here. But as Jim pointed out in another thread, you have to have moved back into your own sense of power over your own life and the feeling that you have choices, before you can really think or act rationally and confidently about these situations.
I wrote in another thread that anger is related to anxiety, where its connected with a feeling of disempowerment. On the other side, anger is related to confidence and creativity when its connected with a feeling of empowerment. Anger is the fountain of much of the world’s greatest literature and art. It’s the neurological trigger for close analysis and action to correct situations we think are wrong.
There are a lot of ways of saying “no.” Eventually we learn to do without projecting a lot of drama, because we’re putting that energy into observation, planning and action.
Well, I’m off to bed.
By the way, thanks, Rune, for that insightful post about how we learn to read other people. I think that part of our suffering in getting over these situations is that we have to reevaluate our understanding of the world around and also our relationship to that world.
We resist it because the information makes the world a more dangerous place (not what we want to know) and if we’re to deal with it, we have to become different, give up some characteristics we are fond of. Initially we’re not sure of how much we have to give up of being nice, courteous, generous and trusting people.
In the initial pain, it can seem like we have to give up everything. Later, as we sort things out, it turns out that we probably just have to learn not to be so trusting. To make people earn our trust. Or maybe give them a chance or two to see if they deserve it, and then cut our losses fast.
And we have to learn a few tricks about sniffing out a certain type of bad guy, even when he’s in the Mr.or Ms. Wonderful phase. The fact is that we can learn to identify someone who is addicted to winning, if that’s what we’re looking for. Learning to say “I don’t agree” or “That doesn’t work for me” goes a long way in that direction.
But it always comes around to doing the healing work.We can’t do any of this if we’re still fundamentally experiencing a victim mentality. That is where they sink the hook. Recovering our power is the key to self-defense, but that’s just a by-product. It’s also the key to getting a life.
Namaste and sweet dreams.
Kathy
Betty: IF I can give you one gift to make a difference in your life it is this — you never did anything wrong. This was a complete setup. Dr. W could have invented ANYTHING to be “able to justify” her actions. She didn’t even need anything remotely tied to reality. She could have told you that one of her dogs went rabid and had to be put down because of you. It didn’t matter. Your most perfect self couldn’t get around her dysfunction.
In my case, I was the only credible component in the woman’s business –because I knew what I was doing, having had a track record in the field. I thought I at least had some safety throughout the completion of the “big project.” She went away on a business trip, the cable internet went down, and the water was shut off due to non-payment. I was at the neighborhood coffeehouse, using the bathroom and wifi when she called a locksmith and changed the locks before she left for the night. Paying clients had their projects derailed, but I heard she was laughing and gleeful as she described how she had gotten rid of that lowlife. The one who had been working 100 hrs a week under her maniacal regimen, trying to get projects to completion.
And, you’re right, even this — with my dogs locked in the backyard where I couldn’t reach them, and not even enough money for a
Thanmotel room for a night — was much less traumatic than the shattering done by the “romantic” con.
I hold to the belief that we have been through this so we can share our truth and help others Thank you, Betty, for sharing your story.
Rune,
You just made me think of something. At the time I was working for my P-sperm donor, he had several other people working for him for NO pay, just room and board, and promises of MONEY LATER. Because of his adventureous life he was able to attract people who would “buy into” his promises, even though he never came through (he was the score keeper) and he “sold” or “promised” in writing 200-400% of every project he did.
He preyed on the rich to “invest” in his enterprizes for a percentage of the “profits” but there never were any profits, to divide, of course…since he kept score. He never filed any IRS forms and always managed to find a crooked banker to work under the radar with him.
I was just another slave to listen to his promises.
After he actually did become VERY financially successful, several of his x wives did get a share of his wealth since he lived in a community property state. I can imagine that wrankled him no end!
One guy worked for him 24/7 for 10+ years for only promises of money and adventure and abuse. He was the resident “kicking boy”—came from an abusive family and I imagine that the abuse from the “father figure” was transferred to my sperm donor.
Anyone who worked for him (later even paid employees) who in any way refused the abuse would be smeared or retaliated against…I know of one employee he killed while on a trip out of the country. I know of several people he threatened physical harm to, to get them to cooperate with him, and when they had the backbone to stand up to him, he smeared them to the limit of his ability. Unsuccessfully smeared in some cases, which INFURIATED HIM NO END.
Your “employer” sounds so much like my sperm donor I wonder if they were related! Nah, just playing from the PSYCHOPATH’S PLAY BOOK—page 47, paragraph 3. LOL