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More Things You Don’t Want To Know (Everything is relative to hockey)

April 12, 2012


Hello again. It’s been a good week to post here, so I appreciate the fact you’ve stopped by and taken in some of my thoughts. I’ve got a post working for Bolts by the Bay as well that I am very happy to have almost ready. The internet is not a completely steady fixture for me right now, so that post is still “working”. I have a tad more research to do about Clark and Brewer(who I don’t believe “suck” at all) before I feel it’ll be ready, but that’s just a matter of a day or less. As for the reasoning behind my recent posting on this blog in particular, if you’re willing to follow along, I’ll make a wholehearted attempt at giving some insight.

If you’ve taken some time to read the last few posts, at the very least, this post will be more clear. Otherwise, all I can do is type and you can take it as you like. The one thing I REALLY needed in order to overcome what is by every definition of the word “trauma”, I couldn’t get. That one thing was time. I needed to recover and that takes time. I needed that more than anything. I still don’t have it, but have managed to find just barely enough to at least still be standing. Also, to define “trauma”, let’s continue on the same page moving forward from here on out in full recognition that “trauma” is a plural concept. In other words, I’m always dealing with multiple trauma’S’ all at once. There is no other way and I accept it, so please do the same.

An example of a trauma from which I needed time to recover follows. Imagine that you have two available choices at a key moment in time when a decision must be made. One of those choices is to take your three beloved cats, all of whom require some sort of specialized medical attention, and move them into your current, rusty, old, not-so-reliable, vehicle where you will live until your security clearance investigation is complete in order to begin working and collecting a steady paycheck again. The other choice is to move into a small “room” in a barn on the property of someone you had known previously and who is willing to let you stay there for “as long as you need to get back on your feet”.

Now imagine that you have already gone through numerous traumas up to that point and every notion of personal security, including financial, self-safety, physical, mental and any other manner that you may have the ability to conceive, does not exist any longer. Then imagine you didn’t have any reason to believe anything other than the person who let you stay in the tiny barn area was trying to be a decent person and you begin to think you will now begin recovering. The newest traumas came as a direct result of another person’s sad, lonely desperation. HE, the “decent” person who swore all over the place that he was trying to “help” me out, was in fact holding my head even further down the pits of hell, making what was barely “treading water” previously, now drowning in a panic of shear terror while fighting for life to get a grasp of air.

Yes, take that last paragraph in and let it settle for a while. It’s real. It’s true. It’s EXACTLY what I’ve lived. HE did every possible thing to keep me trapped, with no hope of ever recovering he could find ways to do as often as he could. I had only way to escape. I could have taken a shotgun, shot all three of my beautiful cats who meant the world to me and would be very hard to adopt due to their special needs. It would have been more humane to end their lives than adopt them to someone who couldn’t take care of them. I then could have left for work, a place that took me three full hours to drive back and forth from every day once my clearance was approved, with only what fit in the vehicle and lived in that vehicle at the lightrail station for however long I could until told by law enforcement to move elsewhere.

Aside from that, I was trapped. HE messed with every vehicle I had so that I’d be forced to call him when an issue arose so that he could “rescue” me. I bought a used vehicle that I had to put more than $3,000 into just to get it inspected, safe, titled and tagged, but it was mine and I owned it outright. My hope was that I could get at least a year out of it. No, I got a month out of it. HE, as it turned out, had done all sorts of things to that vehicle while I was sleeping and after I sank more than $5,000 into it, finally couldn’t drive it to the lightrail station without putting even more money into to it. I HAD to have a vehicle in order to work and earn money to LIVE. HE knew that, so HE kept messing with my vehicles. I didn’t become aware of the reasons my vehicles (this one is plural as well, because during the 1 1/2 years I was in HIS brand of hell, I went through THREE vehicles that mysteriously kept having issues) were constantly sucking money out of me until I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of night one night.

Now, along with remaining trapped where I was, my cats were having more health problems as well. They were starting to cost me more and more money. Then I started having more and more health issues as well. My hell was not improving. I was not recovering. I was getting worse. Far, far worse. My struggle to become fully employed with a steady paycheck and benefits as a result of the last set of traumas was much harder and I was not gaining ground. I was losing ground. A lot of ground. It didn’t make sense. But then the pieces fell together. There was nothing I could do other than take steps to ensure no one could touch my car while I was sleeping. I had very little money at all to rent an apartment, pay for utilities or anything of the sort. All my money was being thrown into my vehicles, my cats and my medical bills. Health insurance doesn’t cover everything and not all medications are covered, so even with health insurance, medical bills can still begin to stack-up. I wasn’t recovering from the traumas that were the reason I was in that situation in the first place, I was being wrecked even more.

What you’ve read so far is a mere glimpse. A minute tip of the tongue taste of a fraction of my second by second hell. I could go further by mentioning the part where I found out about the hidden video camera in my barn space. I could hit you with the fact that women masturbate too and I for one don’t have an issue admitting to that. What I do have a problem with is that fact that another person had video of me engaging in such an activity and I had no idea. Let me inform you that it’s not a happy day when it’s discovered you’ve been watched for hours upon hours of your already hellish life. It’s even less of a happy day when you are sat down and shown the video of you masturbating. No, that is just not a happy day at all.

How about I toss in a little more, just to make my point stick for good. I also discovered, after I’d managed to calmly get the FUCK out of that place (but not before I had to put two of my lovely cats to sleep since I simply couldn’t bear to have them in the situation and couldn’t afford the time and expense to somehow keep them alive, suffering with me), that there was also video of HIM entering into my area while I was hard at work. He not only dug through my drawers, but he also masturbated and left his man juice on my pillow. Yes, the pillow on the couch I had managed to salvage from the previous multiple traumas and that I had to sleep on for a year and a half. There was no room for a bed, so my bed was a couch. Yes, that’s right. Sit and think about this for a while.

What makes this latest information even more of a pisser for me was that I had come home from work on several occasions and when I sat on my couch could swear I smelled “sex”. Now if you’ve read at least one of the recent previous posts, you’ll then have to think to yourself, but she hasn’t had sex in several years. That’s right. So why would I be smelling “sex” if I wasn’t having sex? Well, it wasn’t until later did I discover that my sniffer works pretty well. I did smell exactly what I thought I smelled. I slept on it many times. He had turned the pillow over, so anything “crusty” was not on the top of the pillow and I washed my sleep sheet and pillow case every week at a friend’s house, hence making me unaware of the “present” HE had been leaving me at least once a week for several months.

Is this too much information for you? From my perspective, all I can feel for you if it is too much for you is this:  “Tough shit. Be grateful it wasn’t you who had to live it. You can stop reading this post. You can close this internet window and never again read anything having to do with this blog. You can believe that none of what I have typed could be real and only happens in movies. You can ignore it. I was not and still am not as fortunate as you in those respects. It’s real. It happened. It was my LIFE.”

I’ll repeat for clarity that this is a scant glance into what I mean by traumas. Please don’t tell me you are sorry. It’s okay. It happened. If I had not been fighting for my life in the first place, I would not have been in the position to have to believe HE was trying to help me. You aren’t the one who did it to me, so you do not have to be sorry about it. Do not feel sorry for me. I was not a victim. I was a person who was treated wrongly, no matter how lonely HE was. HE thought he could break me down until I simply had no fight left in me. HE thought he could tear down my “Mianess” until I was left with no vehicle, hence no way of earning money, and eventually just resign myself to the fact that I was destined to move into “the house”, as in HIS house, and marry him because I just had nothing left but that. He was wrong.

Were charges pressed? That is a complex answer and not one that needs to be answered right now. If anyone who reads this chooses to contact me to force the idea that I “should have” done “this” or “that”, I will reply exactly I am typing right now. If you believe I “should have” or “could have” or ask  “why didn’t you…” than I would like to see your working time machine. If you have a machine or method in which to go back in time in order to change a single millisecond of my life, please feel free to tell me all about the exact things I should and could do. Otherwise, please have faith in the fact that I made every best possible decision I could make at every single possible second of each and every minute of the hell in which I have lived. I was not his victim. I was simply thought to be easy prey. Did HE get away with doing the wrong things? Only one level and it is not a very important level when all is said in done.

He did cause me suffering, fear, anguish, many traumas on top of multiple others, sadness and all sorts of other things related to his brand of “helping” me. He did not, however, succeed in removing my hope of recovery no matter how hard he tried. He did not take away my love of hockey or music. He did not cause me to give up. He now has to continue living in his world, sad, lonely, without hope or love. He has to answer to his maker and no matter what you believe, we all have a maker of some kind. He has to live with himself and I feel sorry for HIM.

To conclude this post, I thank you from the bottom of my heart if you’ve read any, some of all of my posts, especially this particular post. I share the things I do the way I do, because if I can give even one other human a perspective that may not have crossed that person’s mind during times of hopelessness, maybe just one perspective I share will help just one other person understand how to view their personal hell in a way that helps them make it just a little further and/or better than originally thought.

I also have been sharing this week as a means of having somewhere to point people who don’t understand what’s going on with me or who have the best of intentions in telling me “you should do this” and “can’t you just do…” or “it can’t be as bad as you’re making it out to be” or “it’s your fault for moving so much” or “why don’t you just ask your mom or dad or boyfriend or husband or brother or sister or whomever else to help you?” One of the reasons I wrote one of the more recent posts and have been putting “help” in quotes is illustrated here for a better understanding. I’ve heard the word “help” used in the context of other people’s’ version of “helping” me more times than I can count. “Help” is a highly subjective term and the ONLY “help” I really WANT or NEED (and they are now very much one and the same thing with zero doubt in my mind) is actual help getting me a safe, clean place to live in the Tampa Bay area where I can avoid the immense pain that comes with living in a cold, damp basement and weather that often dips below 50%. Cold is actual physical pain for me. I’ve broken many bones in my life. After time wears on, those breaks ache far more in cold than they had before.

I want to get away from all the traumas that have everything to do with the county in which I live in MD. I live only two miles from the HE who jizzed all over my pillow. Everything about the state of Maryland is wrong for me in every single possible aspect and I just want to get out of this state and have a fighting chance. My hockey team is the Tampa Bay Lightning and I love hockey. I can work, but I need to be away from where I am to have success. You have to trust me. You have to have faith in me. You have to believe I KNOW what I want and what I need. I have typed this so that I don’t have to keep reliving my traumas by having to explain my situation over and over and over and over and over and over to people who tweet me, who aren’t in my world and to people who truly do wish they could help me, but who can’t fathom how.

I just want to get out of Maryland and start my entire life all over again, again. I know I can, but I can’t do it alone. I just don’t know what else to do or say any more. What else does anyone want from me? What?

Love your hockey. It will love you back. I F’ing love my hockey team and there’s no doubt about that.

peace – mia – @creasesinger

I know I’m in the hearts of kind people so I’m not technically alone, but in the physical sense I am and that’s the part that matters most to ME. I matter. Hockey matters to me. Music matters to everyone. Everything matters. Can you help me? If I can’t recover from the last, how hard do you think it is to recover from the next. If you can’t help, it’t okay. I don’t love people and appreciate them because I want something from them. I do, however, have hope and believe, someone can help me. I believe.


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