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Married Sociopath


I’m feeling a little shell-shocked right now – by my own stupidity and naïveté, and by the sheer mind-blowing badness of other human beings. I’m thousands of miles away from home, visiting a friend, and I’m trying not to let what happened ruin the trip.

I told my friend about the client, and she was not terribly happy given that she knows I met him through sex work. She’s right of course: hardly the best way to meet a decent man. I showed her a YouTube video of the dude I had managed to unearth during one of my googling frenzies, and she pointed out that he was wearing a wedding ring. I looked a little closer, and she was right!

The YouTube video had been posted a few years ago, so she said “Well, maybe he was married back then, but isn’t now.” Well, true, but this guy had never mentioned being married as recently as 2008. He said he was married once before, but got divorced in his early thirties – a long time ago given that he’s now forty-seven. No other wife was ever mentioned.

A few more quick google searches unearthed the Facebook profile of somebody who is very probably his wife. Also, some things he said just didn’t add up at all. Yup, the dude is married. No doubt about it.

I almost feel like he was fucking “grooming” me for an affair. For example, he made a point of talking about the long, long hours he works. Of course he did! That way when we finally ended up shagging, he would have the perfect excuse for not being available all the time. I made myself vulnerable by telling him a lot of stuff about my personal life, and I think he pegged me as an easy victim. His strategy was to pretend that he, too, had had a crappy childhood and felt lonely, and disconnected from people. He seemed so kind, understanding and empathic. That stuff I wrote about us having a “trauma bond“….man, there wasn’t any fucking trauma bond between us. But he sussed that I wanted there to be, so he sucked me in by creating one. I’ve got to hand it to him, the dude is good.

I’m flabbergasted. I just don’t understand some people. Why would you deliberately lie to your wife, and then lie to some obviously very vulnerable other woman to get into her knickers?  It’s fucking sick. I can’t imagine ever being such a manipulative liar. People like this scare me. They’re sociopaths.

Worse than that, though, I scare myself. My terrible loneliness and desperate need for love and affection are making me very vulnerable and putting me in lots of potentially dangerous situations. It’s happening all the fucking time now.  I can’t trust myself anymore. If I’m not romantically interested in a person, I usually have very good instincts, but as soon as I get interested in somebody emotionally and sexually my instincts go completely out of the window. I only see and hear what I want to hear; if I don’t like what I see or hear, I manage to rationalize my doubt away, and if I don’t hear or see anything I want, I just make up some little romantic fantasy to fill in the blanks.

In the shower this morning, I asked my Higher Power to not let me obsess over this guy. Well, I guess my Higher Power answered my prayers – just not quite in the way I had expected.

Oh well. Back to the SLAA drawing board for me. It’s pretty clear that I cannot be trusted to be within a hundred-mile radius of any man.

I am grateful, though. Grateful for the fucking internet which allowed me to get the better of this dude before he got the better of me.

I’m also grateful for my observant friend here who saved me a whole lot of grief – and for my friend back home who pointed out sardonically how much erotic massage money I lost by developing a romantic interest in this guy. They have both helped stopped me from going to a really dark place.

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So what does this mean, Sigmund?


I was so tired last night that I lay down on my bed “for a few minutes” around 11:30 p.m. I don’t know why I always think it will be for just “a few minutes” because what always happens is that I wake up hours later, with the lights blaring in every room, fully clothed and still wearing my contact lenses. Last night was no exception, of course.

I woke up around 4:30 a.m., and then couldn’t really get back to sleep again because I started thinking about Wednesdays, which are, from now on, going to be one of my “days off”. 2009 was a disastrous year for me because I was so stressed out about money that I never really allowed myself to have “down time”. Of course, I did end up having “down time” but it was mainly because I got so frustrated and depressed by working myself too hard that I ended up being forced to stop working instead of actually choosing to have fun and relax. The main result of this was that I never really could have fun and relax because I always had this nagging feeling that I was slacking off and should be doing something else. This a pattern I’ve followed since I was eighteen, and I don’t know why it’s so fucking hard to break it. I don’t understand why I have a lot of self-knowledge, which I then proceed to ignore to fall back into my bad habits.

Anyway, I digress….so back to the main story. So, here I am at 4:30 a.m., thinking about Wednesdays, wondering how to spend them. I’d like to make Wednesday a “creativity day”, a time when I attempt to write a short story, or just do anything creative and fun. It terrifies me to think that I might “only” be a teacher. I know teaching is a noble profession, and it’s definitely something I enjoy and want to make part of my life forever, but I just don’t want it to be the only thing I do. I’d like to start writing fiction and perhaps also creative non-fiction but I don’t know if I have it in me. I mean, if I want to write, why the fuck haven’t I written anything before now?! I’m fucking thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake! Surely I’d have started years ago if I truly had something to write about. Maybe I also want to write for all the wrong reasons…you know, just so I can say “Oh, I’m a writer” and think of myself as a creative person. Maybe I don’t have a creative bone in my body, and I should just accept the fact that I’m going to be a teacher, have kids, retire and then die, just like everybody fucking else in the world.

By 5:30 a.m., I was still wide awake, trying to come up with a short story idea (I thought about writing one which incorporates a Scottish myth) but still listening to the little voice deep inside me whispering “You can’t do it! You can’t do it! Who do you think you are?!” Eventually I remembered a woman in my book group who is a published novelist…but, well, her book is awful. I don’t want to be mean (ultimately I admire her for having the determination, will-power and work ethic to get the damn thing written…and she did also pace it well) but, oh my God, I just know I can write something better than a completely unrealistic, “feel good”, happy ending type novel. This calmed me down a wee bit and I was eventually able to fall asleep. Now, I know it isn’t very nice to use somebody else’s literary deficiences as a sleep aid or as a boost to my own creativity, but, hell, give me a damn break. I needed to get to sleep somehow.

Unfortunately, I was then re-awakened at 6:30 a.m. by a text from a friend of mine in Berlin, a painter. It was strange that she should text me just after I’d been agonizing about being creative. I have always really envied her life and creativity because she’s devoted herself to her art since a very young age, and moves in bohemian, artistic circles. I wouldn’t say that I want to be her, but I have always wanted to live my life more like her. Her text said that a friend of hers (an annoying, pretentious, rich English girl whom I’ve never liked) accused her of stealing her painting ideas. I’ve never really understood why my friend likes this girl so much (I suppose they must just have some sort of connection through painting), but their frienship has always been so fraught with stress and drama, so it seems like far too much effort to me. God, there is enough pain in the world without having friends who add to it! My friend also told me that a famous gallery owner had come to see her show, had wined, dined and bedded her, all while promising her the world…and, then…neglected to get back in touch again.

I don’t know if there’s any significance in receiving a text from my “creative friend” just after I’d been agonizing about my own creativity. Probably not. Probably it means nothing. Or maybe the text was to remind me that writing, and being creative, isn’t going to be a panacea for all that it is wrong with my life. Who knows.

I finally fell asleep again and had the weirdest dream. I won’t go into too much detail (reading about other people’s dreams is kinda boring, huh?) but suffice it to say that I was a trainee teacher in a school that was being taken over by strange, evil orange tabby cats (in the vein of Garfield). They kept appearing, then vanishing, and turning up somewhere else in the classroom. I was drawing a picture of a leaf-less tree in winter on the blackboard when one turned up and knocked over all my belongings. Next, all the teachers were out in the car park, discussing, quite nonchalantly where they were going to be transferred (as if it were normal for evil Garfield-like cats to destroy your previous school!). “MM” was there, too (he was a trainee teacher also, apparently) and a very young teacher came up and whispered something to him, so it was obvious that they’d had sex at some point. I asked “MM” if they’d had sex before he met me, but he never answered, so I took that to mean he had had an affair with the teacher. She was still around, gloating, so I kicked the crap out of her, and then started to beat up “MM”, too in the hope that he would finally admit the truth. He never did, and the dream ended with us standing in my living room with “MM” looking away from me.

The strange thing is that I then sent “MM” a text about this dream (it felt so real!) and I got the following message back:

“Oh baby. I also dreamt you were having an affair. I was breaking everything around me and woke up very sad”.

What does it all mean, Sigmund?!

Wisdom toothless crazy cat lady.


Somehow I have found the motivation to start writing again despite the urge just to sink back down into a pit of lethargy. I wish I could find the desire to write more, but it’s just gone. I’m sure it’ll come back eventually, but right now I have very little to write about. I am horribly uninspired. For this reason, I didn’t do NaNoWriMo. I thought about entering a short story competition this month but I know it’s not going to happen. Somewhere in the deepest darkest depths of my psyche, I’m sure there’s a little voice screaming, “You abject fucking failure!”, but, to be quite frank, I can’t even rouse myself from my lethargy to self-flagellate myself for once.

I know this makes me sound really unhappy, but I’m not really. I wouldn’t say I’m happy (and I’m certainly not content) but I’ve definitely experienced far darker days than this. What I will say is that my days just seem incredibly humdrum. It was, of course, Thanksgiving recently and then it was my birthday, but every single day, whether it’s a day of celebration or not, seems to be exactly the same. They all just blend into each other.

Sometimes I wonder whether I should be concerned that I’m not unhappy. I’m somebody (correction: used to be somebody) who needs (needed) a lot of stimulation, variety and change and yet here I am appparently OK with leading a very narrow, little existence. Besides Midwestern Man, I don’t have any friends. It’s so difficult to build meaningful friendships, as most people here seem to prefer having casual acquaintances. I can’t be bothered having superficial casual chit-chat, so I just stay at home, hanging out with my ever increasing menagerie of cats and dogs and, of course, my husband. On the rare occasions when I do go out, I have fun, but I would have been just as content staying at home with my pets. Is is natural that I’ve become a crazy cat lady, or is this some new kind of depression which has snuck up on me without my realizing it?

On Wednesday, Midwestern Man and I will have our first ever couples counselling session. There is nothing terribly wrong with our relationship, but I do think that we need to learn how to communicate better. And I do wish that our relationship and sex life were more passionate. I miss the days when I would be crazy with lust for a man. I just don’t feel that way for Midwestern Man. I think he’s extremely handsome, but I don’t have the urge to rip his clothes off at all. This worries me but, on the other hand, every time I did want to rip a guy’s clothes off, he was usually a completely unreliable, abusive arsehole. Midwestern Man (who, from now on will be known simply as MM, because it takes too long to type “Midwestern Man” – and, besides, it’s a ridiculous name anyway) makes me feel safe and stable, and I just don’t find that very sexually exciting.

It’s so hard for me to know what a healthy relationship is because I’ve never had one before. My lack of sexual passion for MM could be a glaring sign that we’re not right for each other; or it could be a sign that I’m only sexually attracted to people who are bad for me.

Oh, God, whatever…I’m boring myself here.

Since I last wrote here, I’ve had my wisdom teeth removed and went for my immigration biometrics appointment. The wisdom teeth surgery was far, far easier than I expected. I was sleepy the day of the operation (as a result of the anaesthetic) but I was back to normal the day after. I has absolutely no facial swelling whatsoever, which was a surprise. I almost wished it had been harder to get over because MM took care of me so well, and was so sweet and attentive, that I could easily have lived like that forever!

The immigration biometrics appointment was also a piece of cake. All they do is take your picture and fingerprints. It will get really interesting in February when MM and I will have to go for our immigration interview. Of course, we’ve got nothing to hide, as it’s not like we’re committing visa fraud, but such situations always make me nervous.

That’s all for now, folks. Sweet dreams.

Chance encounter thanks to Cesar Millan


So, I’ve been reading the book Cesar’s Way by celebrity dog trainer, Cesar Millan (because I’m not just a crazy cat lady – I also have two dogs!). He’s so famous in the US that I’m sure I don’t need to explain who he is to my American readers. I’m not sure if his show “The Dog Whisperer” has made it across the pond yet, but if it hasn’t, all that my UK readers really need to know is that Millan basically helps “troubled” dogs whose only problem is that their owners are stupid, spoiled Americans.

millan-dogpack-lg

He’s quite an interesting guy. Arrived in the US from Mexico as an illegal immigrant, and now he’s a friend to various Hollywood celebrities. He must be worth a fucking fortune. When I was in my local pet shop last weekend, I saw that he now has his own “Dog Whisperer” Product Line, complete with “Fresh Breath Fortified Water” for dogs. Jesus.

fresh breath

If you can get through the book’s self-congratulatory introduction with its annoying shout-outs to his celebrity friends (“Ooh, Jada Pinkett Smith – you’re simply an angel”; “Oprah, darling, sweetie, you’re just such an amazing human being” yadda yadda yadda), it’s actually a very good read. A lot of the stuff in it is plain common sense, but there are also plenty of “a ha” moments when you realize that you know embarrassingly little about dogs.

Reading the book has actually made me feel very guilty. I have barely walked my dogs at all this summer because it was just so goddamn fucking hot, and then not walking them became a bad habit. I do have a very large yard they get to frolic around in, but I tend not to let them out there for very long because there are too many crazy people in this neighbourhood. One of my dogs is a pit bull mix, and some asshole passers-by feel that it is their duty to “toughen her up” – I’ve caught people throwing stones at her, and one guy even punched her through the fence. Oh, and then of course there was the time when my pit bull escaped through a hole I didn’t know was there and nearly got shot by the police…just for being a pit bull! She’d done nothing wrong!

Cesar Millan advocates walking your dog for at least an hour and a half each day! This is quite a daunting task, but I did notice that my dogs developed some little behavioural issues this summer, probably because they weren’t getting enough walks. If walking them for that long will make them happy, then that’s what I have to do. I have a responsibility to them, and I don’t want to let them down.

Yesterday I was walking my dogs, on a route I wouldn’t usually take, when I saw a very pretty girl walking towards me with a young, beautiful pit bull. As we both had pits, we stopped to talk to each other, and, oh, she was soooooo cool. When she told me where she was from (Montréal originally), she looked at me strangely, as I think I squealed out in excitement. I’m not usually that excitable but I’ve had Montréal on the brain recently because I’ve been reading Bazookah Joe, a blog written by another Montréal woman. The main reason I read her blog is because she’s an interesting person and writes well, but it also pleases me to think about her traipsing about in a cold, snowy, urban city…so different from where I live now. The idea of it is just so romantic! I’ve been to Montréal three times, and I loved it, and I can easily imagine myself living there one day. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Given all of this, it was just very strange to bump into a Montréaler, one of only two I’ve met in real life (three, if you include my blog friend).

I hope I didn’t scare this woman off, as I am so desperate for intelligent, stimulating friends here that I may have come off as a bit needy. Besides Midwestern Man, I don’t have any good friends here. Oh, of course, there are people I know with whom I can go for drinks, but they’re not really friends, merely acquaintances. Midwestern Man thinks the reason I don’t have any friends is because I’m some sort of anti-social cat person, and, OK, there’s a tiny element of truth to that. However, the main reason is that I just don’t meet anybody I particularly want to be friends with.

This girl, though…She’s smart, funny, well-travelled, well-educated, bilingual, independent…but more than that she just has that certain “je ne sais quoi” that I need in my friends. I don’t quite know to explain what it is. In fact, I’ve almost forgotten that such a thing exists. I mainly remember it when I meet other Europeans, or foreigners. This “thing” just means that conversation flows; I feel at ease in the other person’s company; I don’t have to worry they’re secretly some kind of Republican pro-life nutjob who’s totally uptight about everything; I don’t have to spend all night listening to them trying to imitate my accent, and telling me how they’re from my country, too, even though they wouldn’t be able to point it out on a map. Yuck!

Yup, I really like this girl, and I hope we can hang out. We exchanged phone numbers, but I almost want to wait for her to call me as I’m sure I gave off a pathetic “Befriend me! Please God, befriend me!” vibe.

What should I do? Leave it a couple of days before calling her, or what?