Sitting on the Front Porch

My father wasn't the only one that was torn away from me. We had visited my father's family often during my first six years. My paternal grandmother was a loving woman. She adored children and treasured the three of us. Holidays and birthdays were never forgotten. Mom Mom was crafty. She crocheted me adorable ear warmers with curls hanging from the back and sewed dolls for me: matching Raggedy Ann and Andy, Mr. and Mrs. Humpty Dumpty. While recently moved into the blue house, she and my aunt, both whom lived in Florida, came to visit us. My aunt recalled the story: "We weren't allowed in the house. I thought it odd. We had to sit on the porch to visit. He [my step-father] wouldn't allow us in the house." I do partially recall the visit. While I don't recall the limited access they had to me, I do remember that was the last time that I saw my aunt, who was pregnant and soon to deliver our youngest family member. It would be another eight years or so that I would see my grandmother again, and another 24 years before I would see my aunt again. I never understood why I wasn't allowed access to my Mom Mom. She would send gifts that were never received. I saw them: in the bottom of my parents closet. She knitted us slippers, but they remained in a plastic bag at the bottom of my parents' closet. She knitted me mint green mittens and a matching hat, my favorite color and one that would match a jacket I had received for Christmas. There they sat, at the bottom of their closet, never to be given to me to be worn. When my SF was at work and while my mother was at the barn, I would go through their closet and look at the gifts that I was not permitted. It was as though I was taunted by this severance from my family. A family divided; a separation that remains to this day. Divide and Conquer. I have no ties with my family. My brothers and I do not speak to one another and have not done so for a very long time. Even when we were in contact, those times were strained. While I have attempted to reconcile with my brothers, shame and resentment persist. They have allowed my step-father win in the end, even though there are 25+ years in between. My step-father was grooming the environment, setting up for the abuse, with absolute brute force. Separating us from our family attenuated his chances of getting caught. What we later learned, after I finally left home, was that my step-father had threatened his previous wife's then 6 year old daughter. As he left her, he threatened, "She's really pretty. I'm going to get her."

Tearing us down

As my mother describes it, my step-father came to our apartment in his work truck and said, "Move in with me." Just like that. Matter of fact. He didn't profess his love. He didn't ask her if she would care to move in with him. He just told her. It was a command. Just do it. My mother describes that she consented because she thought, "We will have a family again." We already were a family. And while we struggled financially, my mother did her best without child support payments or government assistance. We ate fish sticks and drank powdered milk, but we had what was important. We had one another and a three-legged dog. Mom had a one prior boyfriend and an additional guy for a few dates. Teddy was her steady and I loved Teddy. He had kind brown eyes and soft wavy brown hair to match. His voice was soothing and he was hard working. He was smitten with my mother. He loved us. And I felt loved by him. But Ron, my step-father became another story. My immediate dislike for him was as a premonition for what was to become. That day we moved out of the apartment and arrived at his rented home changed my course forever. Ron was mastering Machiavellian concepts. He was manipulative and ruthless. Our furniture didn't go to his home, it went to his friend's house. He gave it away. My mother lost her car. A 1969 Pontiac Grand Am. Silver with Black Leather Interior. My mom takes pride in her vehicles. She loved that car. It was an exciting day for her when she earned that car. He gave it to his alcoholic, drug addicted sister. When Arlene pulled up to the house for a visit, my mother was devastated at what had become her prized possession. Filthy, dented, and sounding rough, her voice wept at her loss. My mother's doll collection was ruined from a leaky garage roof; purposely, I'm sure. He forced her to quit her job as a telephone operator. Six months after we moved in with him, he conned her out of the six-thousand dollars worth of CDs she had saved from the sale of our family home. He paid his bills with it. He had me go through all of my toys to eliminate most of them. "If there is something here that doesn't belong here, I'm going to throw all of them away. Choose wisely." My mother realized she had made a mistake. But by that time, it was too late. We had nothing. No money. No car. No personal possessions. And lastly, he took my father away from me. I remember it like yesterday. I was sitting in the living room, making a list for Santa. Sitting on the bland brown plaid couch wearing his white t-shirt and denim cut-offs, he demanded of the three of us, "You are going to call your father and tell him that you don't want to see him anymore." Bill got on the phone first and did as he was told. He then handed the phone to me. "Daddy, I'm making my Christmas list. When am I going to see you again?" "I want to see you..." his voice trailed as the phone was torn from my hand. Sam picked up the receiver next and did as he was told. I begged to talk to my daddy. Eighteen years would pass before I saw him again.

What is a psychopath?

Antisocial. Sociopath. Psychopath. These terms are often used loosely and interchangeably. While those who describe themselves as "antisocial" because they don't like to be around others, they are really describing themselves as "asocial." Antisocial is a personality disorder that begins in childhood, usually before or about the teen years, where a series of bad behaviors including truancy, lying, cheating and fighting are key elements. Cleckley was a psychiatrist who described while the superficial appearance of one may seem normal, it serves only as a "mask" for mental illness. The most modern term, based on an older DSM (Diagnostic Statistical Manual) popularized by Robert Hare, PhD, a Canadian psychologist, describes a particularly type of evil person, on a scaled rating for their behaviors on a deeper level. Dr. Hare created a scale utilizing symptomatology common among particular criminals. My step-father could score between a 36 and 39 on the scale, by my assumption if I were to rate him. Through my training as a physician, I have found others very much like my step-father. I couldn't make much sense of my childhood. It was filled with trauma, blame, guilt and shame. But in medical school, learning about psychiatry, I was able to suture my life as I recovered. While I had already been learning about grooming behaviors in regards to pedophiles, the epiphany about my step-father didn't come to me until my third year during an interview with a particularly vile "patient." I was rotating through an inpatient psychiatry ward in an inner city when we met "Mr. Smith." Mr. Smith was a diabetic patient married to a nurse. He had an addiction problem and when out of funds, would either sabotage his blood sugars to gain admission or become "suicidal" to hang out in the inpatient unit where he would be protected from outside bill collectors. He openly admitted this and boasted proudly of how he could play the doctors and his wife. He answered affirmatively to questions regarding fire setting as a kid, numerous fights, thefts and harming animals. Accusatorily, he remarked, "What are you going to do now? Analyze me?" As a young student, I looked to my attending for guidance. I explained that I would discuss his case with my attending and we would formulate a treatment plan there after. "What do you think!" he demanded. Again, as I looked to my attending, my superior nodded his approval to offer my opinion. "I think you have antisocial personality disorder." "What is that?" "Well, it is where you do a lot of criminal behaviors and have no remorse for it. You use people to your advantage, and you don't feel guilty." "Is she right?" he asked my attending. "Hand me that book over there." My attending opened the pages of the then DSM-IIIR and read aloud the criteria. I studied every word and one by one, I was taken back to the braggadocio manner in which my step-father would boast about what he did "as a kid" and what he continued to do up until the day I left home: "repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest...conning others for personal profit...repeated physical fights...reckless disregard for safety...failure to honor financial obligations...lack of remorse." The last one hit me hard. I remember that is what he said to me when I left; that I had no remorse for what I had done. What I had done? What did I do? I left home for my own safety. But I remembered that he had been seeing a psychiatrist just before I left. Projection is a common coping strategy that I witness my patients utilize. He was projecting what the psychiatrist had told him onto me. He had accused me of being the "antisocial." This was an eye opening experience. One that I would encounter many times later in my profession.

The First Time

I remember the first time I met him. There I was, age 5, getting ready for school in my red, white and blue cheerleading outfit. Out of the room my mother and I shared in the two bed room apartment, stood who would become my stepfather. My mother, incensed over my obsession with that outfit, pulled off my sweater in front of him. "Oh, no you don't!" as she whisked the sweater off of me, my slip showing. I ran into our bedroom, but not after I noticed the smirk of this stranger whom I took an immediate dislike. Days later, as I was on my way to Sunday school, he was there again, in front of our apartment in his "stupid" car. My mother gushed over the 1962 Corvette that was in need of repair. My middle brother jumped in to what he thought was cool. I left for school, but reluctantly as I didn't want to miss out what was going on at home. But at the same time, I was reluctant to be near. I had reservations of this man, and rightfully so. Two weeks went by from our initial meeting. I had come home from school and got out the Fisher Price Playschool. The living room was empty as was the rest of the apartment. My mother again swooped in. "We are leaving. Don't get that out." We arrived at his house to move in: A two bedroom, blue house in the woods. Away from everyone. Our only neighbor was a surly elderly woman who threatened to call the police on my brothers when the football landed on her property. It was a strange place. Far from comfortable. Nothing homey. And guns everywhere. Guns on the walls. Guns beneath the beds. Loads of guns. It was the beginning of the end of my childhood and innocence. I would no longer be that sensitive but pretty little girl with blonde curls. Instead, I became one who was tortured with anxiety, unable to protect my family from this beast. Our broken family of four and our three legged dog just entered the lair of a psychopath.