This is how it starts. Where it leads depends on many things, but this is how it starts. Kind-hearted people have their totally normal sense of reality eroded until other abuses creep in and create more trauma.
The topsy turvy world the victim/survivor lives in due to the gas-lighting is such an integral part of the trauma bond. When you feel like you can’t even trust your own perceptions, you cling to the person supposedly helping you.
Be careful. Trust yourself first.
She sat there in her red and black buffalo plaid shirt, cleavage nearly busting out the top, and a genuine smile filled with more than 70 years of mischief spread across her face. Her white hair was growing out and was a magnificently unruly crown after navigating a blustery December day.
All her years have been spent in this corner of Ontario and everytime I think I’ve met somebody she doesn’t know, I show her a photo of them and she explains they used to ride a bus she drove, or were part of a sports team she coached, or were part of one of her volunteer clubs, or were associated with her family in some such way. She’s got numerous connections in Stratford – including in the police and parole departments.
I passed her a black coffee and grabbed my pop as we began to chat. As Pumpkin’s “Nana”, she wanted the update on him and his educational progress. She knows exactly how smart he is, even if he may not be naturally inclined to sit at a desk and hold a pen particularly well.
Once she was sure his teachers were aware of his potential and his progress she settled in and we discussed bits of everything.
“How’s the situation with…you know?” she asked.
“Same as ever. As long as he stays there – whatever,” I said.
“Is he still posting about you on social media?” She asked with a grin that told me she already knew the answer.
“Yup. But not by name so boldly. He posted about Pumpkin tonight though and I told Pumpkin’s dad. Asshole is lucky my ex doesn’t know where he lives.”
Nana raised an eyebrow in shock and disgust at your boldness. I explained your comment that set off the situation.
“…but obviously he’s not going to get it!” I said emphatically.
Nana rolled her eyes at you and clucked her tongue.
“[The ex] is a good dad,” she said and I nodded in agreement and sipped my drink. Then she glanced at the floor at the edge of the room. “Why is there kitty food here, Varity!?”
“The kitties came for a brief visitation while there was some work being done at the ex’s home,” I explained.
Nana asked if I missed them and I explained why they weren’t here now. I’m trying to protect them from Asshole.
“He’s not gonna get to you, Varity. They’re not going to let him get to you. They’ve got their eyes all over him. He just hasn’t done anything they can solidly arrest him for yet.”
I balked – nervously.
“I mean it. They’re watching him closely. Don’t worry. Get your kitties back; you’ll feel better if you have your kitties back.”
She sipped her coffee while I stared silently at the cat’s food dishes in the corner and I finished my pop.
A silent topic change.
I told her about the man at church who asked me out and how I ended that. She knew him, of course, from her days as a bus driver and agreed it was best to end it.
We talked about different projects we were both part of and so on.
She’s going to help me find a piano teacher for Pumpkin to teach him using the Suzuki method. (I know nothing about this but she does I guess and I’m trusting her.)
The kitties still aren’t here. I do trust her contacts but I’d feel terrible if he hurt them.
Truth and Recovery 