Where was my head in 2018 when I allowed myself to be kidnapped?

Part of the ”STIGMA” related to mental health starts with gossip. People know its hurtful and can lead to detriment. And it could even be the final straw with someone already feeling suicidal. But it happens all the time, anyway.

I’m taking this opportunity to give a real-life example of abuse, trauma and how I now know who my friends really are. Some that wrote me off still surprise me because these people knew my character. My life and decisions throughout have been mainly a reaction to flee a bad situation. My best decision was having my daughter at age 21, just as soon as I earned my Associate of Arts. That was the best decision I‘ve ever made and I’ve had another two amazing small human beings since. They aren’t small anymore. This was where other’s actions and decisions had a direct impact on my life with little to nothing I could do about it. All because of lack of resources. Once I made things happen (against the odds) professionally, I became more independent. That caused once dominant/subservient relationships to become more of a level playing field. I didn’t need them like I did and I wanted to make my own choices without thanking anyone.

I was resented for that and lost once loved ones. They flat out hate me, which I find a waste of their energy, especially after so many years. Gossip hurts. In 2017, I was two years past losing my marketing career at a resort in a ski town. I don’t ski, this was where I ended up a single mother of two. I survived. Losing my career was a devastating blow from which I never recovered. My marriage was falling apart by the time my husband at the time also lost his career. My then husband and I commiserated and lost a grip on how to fix that situation and maintain both expenses and our dignity. Alcohol became the answer then. Then the mental then physical abuse began. I earned a new name, “stupid bitch”. Many times I had other adjectives for a middle name too. The mental abuse was severe. Then came the 4 broken ribs that I was nearly convinced I possibly did to myself. Physically impossible, but most people also believed that I managed to do this to myself. I was a drunk, but not a clumsy one. I was drinking to put myself down. I was suicide-drinking. It happened during a fight when he used his left knee to hold me down while preventing my 911 call with my right hand outreached with my cellphone in hand. The pressure of his body weight fractured four ribs on my right. I didn’t remember that at first because at that point, those fights were normal. Hence numbing myself from his disgusting abuse. That was enough for me to get sober. I had to commit to an exhausting (physically and emotionally) medically-induced sobriety program. It was at least six months of an unexpected marathon of my life. But I did it. And, I’m clearly still sober today, with never a drop. I was still seriously healing from my broken ribs from eight months prior. This was about the time I had to run for my life and divorce this monster. I managed to get a little apartment in the next town so I could still be close to my youngest son. He was nine then. I had been somewhat settled and scraping by to stay alive independently when I had an emergency gallbladder removal. The ER general surgeon let me know she had no concern for me just before I went under her knife. Without anyone else in the room, pre-op, she lent down and about six inches from my face she told me she had a “problem with alcoholics”. My liver doctor had me on a strict low-sodium diet then. Basically one small meal worth of normal sodium intake for a 24 hour period. It takes constant effort. The surgeon ignored that and changed my diet to “low-fat”. I absolutely begged her to not do that and she didn’t care. When I woke after surgery, starving- I was served a bagel. Full of sodium. No fruit, just a big ball of dough to mess me up. And mess me up it did. It’s not shocking that I ended up back in the ER another twelve times over the following two weeks. The nurses were hateful and had a hay-day being flat out nasty to me. I had nobody by my side to prevent it. Who cares about another dead drunk? This was when my captor came after me like gangbusters. I had known him for 16 years at that point through work when I was in the lending industry. He tried chasing me but I had a problem with our age difference of 30 years at that time.

My captor became the person I could rely on, so he prided himself on it and reminded me constantly that he was the only one who cared. At that point, it was completely true short of my older children and a couple of friends that continued to stay in touch as much as I’d want. But since this was all so shameful, that was seldom. I didn’t have anyone on a day-to-day basis besides my neighbors that became friends to an extent. This man sent money to help out. He flattered me and paid compliments as if it were a mission to obtain me. Nicky gets what Nicky wants. At this point I was so traumatized I could barely speak. I could not finish a basic sentence with all my might. That was about the time when the disability judge ordered a psych-evaluation with a doctor of the courts choice. I thought I managed that appointment somewhat decently. The doctors report reflected my IQ being about ten. Yes, ten. This man continued his courting-fest daily. He started getting more serious about this relationship with me as though it were a need of his. He said all the right things and made a lot of promises with his constant proclamation of wealth. He was making life-plans. None of his promises were too extravagant. They were all realistic within the budget in his head of which I was unaware. He wanted to marry me and take away a life of about 40 years of constant stress about money. Those years began when I was a child. He promised to spoil me. He promised I’d never worry about money again. The most important thing he promised though, was access to my 9 year old son, within reason, once I moved in with him. He showed me a legitimate ad for a private plane shared ride membership. There are direct nonstop flights from the resort area where my son lives with his father. My captor lived a six hour drive away. I believed him. He kept talking about “saving me” and relocating me to his house. This was all occurring while I was still in the hospital, so sick I barely knew my own name. One day he showed up with less than 24 hours notice. I guess he told me to start packing but I don’t remember. I couldn’t hold water down and fell asleep often on the floor near the toilet from one blur to the next. For weeks on end. There he was, bright and chipper with his dark tan and Rolex. He was immediately in charge. He convinced me to leave all of my earthly possessions short of what I could shove between his car and mine. He promised to replace everything (which he never did). He made sure to get my new TV. He convinced me to leave my things for my neighbors to potentially sell and keep the profit. As though he had only just thought of it. I was severely dehydrated, confused and I really felt the urgency to just leave it to him and go. I really had no optimism besides gloom and doom if I didn’t. And he knew it. I left behind irreplaceable kid-art, photos and gifts from my deceased mother that were truly dear to me. I also left a very pissed-off landlord/realtor to the point of no return. That was the beginning of my next three years of unrelentingly torturous hell. That landlord still won’t rent to me today, although I’ve apologized profusely over those three years. She has the only rental inventory for about 90 miles in any direction and she could not care less. She won’t even consider a large deposit. She is aware that she is preventing me from being able to see my now 12 year old son right now. I now live 110 miles from him. I have accomplished a lot since 2017, simply by staying alive and sober. I am finally in a place where I’ve gotten away from my kidnapper and I am rebuilding a relationship with my youngest son. I am happily remarried. But I’m still not a part of my son’s daily life. He’s on a baseball team that practices three times a week. I can’t be there. I cannot begin to describe the torment of this, and it’s because of two people. ONE, a realtor with no empathy or forgiveness and the other, a malignant narcissist monster with all the money in the world to prevent me from living after escaping him.

If you have taken the time to read this far, hopefully I’ve explained my plight against corruption and constant disrespect for me and my son as human beings. I’m not asking for anything that isn’t provided to anyone in the USA, citizen or not.

I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t be written off as a “stupid bitch” had a few friends not shunned me during this time. Maybe I could have used a little friendly advice. Maybe others could too.