Good Boi / Bad Boi

It goes in cycles, it always does. We have a time when he acts like a normal, supportive human being. Almost the man I fell in love with 20 years ago. Then something happens. Sometimes I’m aware what the trigger is, but not always. We just finished the bad boy thing, very nasty, trying to kill me via coronavirus, getting his friend to tell me I don’t have covid19, when I did. The snark, the sneer, the rolled eyes. That’s over now. Now he’s in his good boy phase.

This is to lull me in a very false sense of security. All is good! He loves me! He praises me! He tells me I am brilliant. Then, when I’m not expecting it, whammy, sucker punch to the kidneys. It’s coming. I know it’s coming. I don’t know the exact date, I don’t know what it’ll be, but it’s coming.

I give it three to four weeks. Then he’ll do something.

Ever Changing Rules

When Covid19 first started taking off, COPD patients were told to self isolate, being listed as high risk. In two days, this dropped off their list of high risk. (totally fine with who was on there, they are high risk) But I felt like dropping the COPD folks kind of cold. Thrown to the wolves kind of thing.

My doctors office stopped answering the phone. Two weeks ago I find a link to make a phone consult with a doctor, I sign up. (You couldn’t request a time frame, it gave you a time, take it or go away. I took it, although it was very early in the morning. Basically, I got two hours sleep before I had to get up to take it. I’m a night owl, usually falling asleep around five AM.) She confirms I had covid19. I ask why I’d not got a letter from the medical system, advising me to stay at home, ect ect. She tells me, flat out, COPD is not high risk. Lists each type of person who is. She was nice about it, but I still felt like ‘fuck you and your pansy illness’ was the bottom line.

A couple of days ago I got an email from the doctors office, telling me I was in the high risk category. I now had a letter I could give to my employer, a sick note, as it were. (I’m disable, yo, and don’t work). Thing is, I didn’t know if she’d bumped me up the food chain and got me listed, or not.

Turned out, not. The gov’s lists of high risk has changed. COPD (asthma, ect) are now listed as high risk.

At least I know my doctors office doesn’t hate me enough to wish me dead. Yeah, yeah, of course they wouldn’t. But shit happens. One time they held my medications hostage until I came in for a blood test. So, yeah, they’re human too, and ‘mistakes’ happen.

edit: sorry this got a bit whiney. I’m feeling a bit touchy.

I Think He’s A Sociopath.

I’ve made a mistake.

Partner comes in, slumps down on the bed, hangs his head and claps his hands, and says sadly; I am a bad man.

I wanted to say; you aren’t a bad man. You are an evil man.

However, self preservation kicked in and I didn’t say that. I said nothing. And that was my mistake. I did, at least, look at him as if expecting him to say more on it. He peeked up at me, to see how I was reacting – and I realize now, to see if I was buying it.

I should have said: You are not a bad man. Then shut the hell up. That’s how he lies, or one of the ways, by not saying the whole truth.

So a couple of days later, we had that little comedy that I posted a couple of days ago, with his doctor friend. Next time, I’ll say what’s needed for self preservation. You aren’t a bad man, dear. Of course not. He’ll buy it, I think, because it’s what he wants or expects to hear.

I wondered – would it help if I told him I thought he was a sociopath? I did a bit of research on it (I am not a psychiatrist, but I wanted some kind of feed back on the question). Landed on a page with questions answered by sociopaths, and lets just say it was eye opening.

I came away with several thoughts on it, but here are a couple of them. 1) Deaf and blind people don’t consider themselves ‘broken’. They’re just different. Sociopath’s don’t think of themselves as broken, either. They use their ‘skills’ just like anyone else does. Those skills utilize their lack of emotions or guilt and a driving desire to achieve [insert anything]. 2) Every last one of them said if someone told them they were a sociopath (A. They know that, doh) they would consider said person of no use to them, and ‘fuck them up’. Every last one of them said that. Some went a bit further and said … well, paraphrase, they would ghost them or ghost them. (fade away or kill them). Now, even with the grandosius mindset of them all thinking they would ‘fuck you up’, it still boiled down to making your life a living hell.

So, people, if you think telling a sociopath that you are on to them is a good idea, DON’T. It’s not.

Hence my new goals of self preservation.

I spoke with a real doctor about my (maybe) coronavirus symptoms and she confirmed, Yes, I had coronavirus. Gave me some suggestions, reassured me that my fever lasting a month, where not normal, was a known symptom for some people. That’s all I needed to hear, really. Okay. I had it. I survived, didn’t need to go to hospital. Mental releaf. My partner went out of his way to fuck me up and for a few days it worked, until I was able to talk to a medical professional. When I told him what she said, his face was blank. Like that whole comedy a couple of days ago never happened. I got mad.

Then I got sad.

I got really sad. Started crying. I’m not a cryer. I’ve cried 3 times in the last 20 years. I feel broken if I cry. It takes a LOT to get me to cry. I cried on and off for 2 days. I don’t feel better. I feel fragile.

If I Cry, He Wins

Background; I’m sick with what I suspect as covid 19, classic presentation for the first week. But it seems to drag on and on. I mention to partner, all the times he’s talked to his doctor friends, he never tells them I’m sick. I tell him he’s been disregarding everything I’ve said from day one. He denies this even though he’s told me a few times, flat out, I don’t have it. I gave my partner a written list of all the symptoms I’d had over a week ago.

He gets a little snotty about it and I respond in kind. We decide we don’t know what ‘a fever’ is, the definition the medical community is going by.

He calls one of his doctor friends, who say; ‘In this country, ‘a fever’ is anything over 37c’ (meaning, anything over normal). This puts me in ‘sick’ country. He calls a different friend doctor.

So his friend returns the call and my partner walks in and says something to the effect of; you want to talk to him? He’s standing two feet away from me and shouts. I don’t remember the exact words but the effect I came away with was ‘you can talk to him but I already have and you’d be a dick if you do’.

I say, ‘did you tell him my symptoms?’

‘yes’

So I say, no need to talk to him, then.

He speaks with him another 20 mins or so, coming back with two questions. How long have I been smoking and how long have I had COPD. After the call, he comes back and asks if I want to know what he said.

Restraining all sarcastic remarks, I say yes.

His doctor friend says I don’t have it. If I did, I would have recovered by now or I’d be dead. He says it’s just a COPD attack. A little more long winded but that was the bottom line. I didn’t interrupt, roll my eyes, or do anything other than nod. I gave the impression I bought it all. But inside, I’m thinking this just doesn’t match up with other things I’ve seen or watched.

It bothers me enough to wonder what my partner had told him. So the next day, I ask what symptoms he’d told his friend I had. Now this is word for word;

“I told him you had a fever, breathlessness, headaches, runny nose, aches, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And yes, I said ‘etcetera etcetera etcetera’, just like that.”

I said, ‘etcetera etcetera etcetera’? Honestly stunned. He said; Hey, I gave you the opportunity to talk to him yourself!

And I remember, only just then, how my partner lies. He lies with the exact truth. Then uses body language to indicate something else. But he’s on the phone, he can’t use body language to indicate they are all fake or lies. He had to do something verbally. Hence, the ‘etcetera’ business. In effect, he told his doctor friend I was faking. Just putting out symptoms and on and so on and etcetera, yadda yadda.

Of all the times he’s tried to kill me I’ve been amused. This time, I don’t feel amused. I wanted an independent, 3rd party honest opinion. He poisoned it. And implanted the idea with his friend that I’m…god knows what. A hypochondriac? Faking it? Looking for attention?

This time I feel hurt. I’ve had to stop myself from crying several times. I don’t think I’m sick enough to go to hospital. But I’m sick enough to want reasurance that I’m not imagining it, that it’ll be ok, and at what point to call for help. My partner doesn’t want me to go to the hospital either, he says because if you go, you’re likely to get it while in there. Now, that is a ligitament worry.

But the hospital is also where you go to get help. And if you need help and don’t go get help, you die. Which is okay with him, really. He knows if you’re meant to die, you will, and if you’re not meant to, you won’t. I’m fine with him believing that. I’m not fine with him pushing that onto me.

OR I am a hypochondriac.

Feeling Sick and A Little Scared

I’ve been having coronavirus 19 symptoms since March 14th. It’s become my new normal. Daily fever up to 100.6. Off and on: runny nose, aches, breathlessness, exhaustion. The aches are the worst. Muscle, bone and joint pain.

My partner doesn’t believe me, disregards my complaints (I’ve actually stopped telling him about them.) He’s a retired doctor and all his friends are doctors. He talks to them two or three times a week. He’s not told one of them I’m sick. He hasn’t told his family I’m sick. Because in his mind, I’m not. I’m faking, looking for attention, wanting him to take care of me.

He comes in and tells me one of his ICU doctor friends wrote a general note for ‘the group’ (old medical school mates that have a chat forum), giving advice on how to deal with the virus. Bed rest, isolation, someone makes sure they’re frequently turned and still breathing. I’m assuming this includes being given meals although it’s not mentioned. He gave me a vague impression he expected me to do this.

Now this actually sounds kind of nice. It would be amazing to be able to lay down, sleep, not have to worry about making meals. Except, from previous experience, I know he’d ‘forget’ to feed me. (been there, done that.) Even after making a point of asking me what I wanted to eat. Leave the room, get distracted. So, even though I’d love to just lay down, I don’t want to die of neglect. So isn’t going to happen.

The NHS was supposed to write to everyone who they deem vulnerable to the virus. With COPD and diabetes, I should have gotten a letter. But I’ve not. Either my partner has just forgotten to give it to me or they never wrote. OR my GP clinic, who really doesn’t like me as I’m not a good patent, has blocked it, somehow. It would be a massive dick move but I can see them ‘forgetting’ I’m vulnerable because, well, of our history. I have tried calling them, they are not answering the phone.

I haven’t called 111 because up until recently, I didn’t qualify by their rules to call them. I’ve only recently seen an update to call if you’ve had symptoms over 7 days. I’m thinking 25 days qualifies for that. And with that, I run against my other fear. If they want me in the hospital, I’m up against XX amount of people with the virus. Just hold me underwater and let me drown it would be a quicker, more humane death.

I’m actually becoming a little scared. I seem to be surviving the virus but it’s just taking so long to recover! And the fact everyone seems to be either ignoring me or looking through me. I am not sick. I do not exist. I am not worth the paper of a letter to let me know, ‘we are aware of your existence’.

I feel close to giving up.

Murder by pandemic proxy. Maybe.

This is a Gordian knot of a problem. I believe I’ve had corvid 19, my partner dismissed it as nothing. One of my symptoms was muscle, bone and joint pain. Yesterday he comes in and says he fell and hurt his hip. There’s been plenty of times where he’s said he thinks he’s broken a bone and I suggest he go get it checked. He’s refused as ‘there’s nothing they can do’. So, okay. This time I pretty much ignored it. The next time I see him, he’s creeping along. Super slowly. It was so played up I thought it was fake. Still do, mostly. I hurt, he says.

Then he lays on my bed (we sleep in separate rooms. we both snore. He’s deaf. I’m not.), puts his head on my pillow, and coughs. A couple of days ago, he’s breathing hard. Right behind me. I can feel my hair moving. I can feel moisture building on my neck. I ask him not to breath on me. He says; that’s just how I’m breathing. I didn’t ask him to stop breathing. I asked him to stop breathing on me. He didn’t.

He’s never said he feels like he has a fever. He takes zero precautions, that I know of. He’s invited two people in the house after lock down/isolation.

A while ago, I’m at the fridge, digging out a snack. He comes up behind me, puts his arm around my waist, pulls me up against him, and talks into my face. I asked him to back up, mentioning social distancing. He did, but slowly, laughing into my face.*

Now, I don’t know if he’s sick – he’s displaying the symptoms I had. Cough, breathless, aches. I also had fever and runny nose, which he’s not mentioned.

I never got tested (I’m not famous, a politician, sports figure or actor. Even though I have COPD I don’t rate getting a test). So we don’t know for sure if I got it. And the jury is still out on if you can catch it again. But damn if its not like he’s trying to give it to me.

Oh, and btw, I’m still sick. I went 6 days being ill. Two days without fever, then it started all over again. From what I see, you have to go 3 days without fever before you’re considered recovered. I still get low grade fevers, fatigue, runny nose. Is it the same bout or… a second wave?

*I no longer feel safe or comforted by hugs. Especially hugs that pin me against something (like an open fridge) I feel… captured? Confined? Trapped. A few weeks ago, I got a hug by a woman. I didn’t feel trapped. But it was a one armed hug, on the side. I had an escape route. So, maybe there will be hope that someday, I will enjoy hugs again.

Now I’m scared.

They got my hopes up, damn it. Now I’m actually scared. I had managed to get into a comfort zone, ignoring things or just getting on with it. Now I have a dangling hope of escape and it’s scaring the hell out of me.

I’ve been having some tests done on my memory. Not sure if I’ve mentioned my short term memory loss. I can’t hang on to a thought longer than a few seconds. Or as the old expression goes, in one ear and out the other.

About four years ago, I’d been tested for dementia. It was past due for a re-test. My memory is even worse. But they’ve been talking a lot about other things. Lots of side glances and knowing nods. Asking if I want to talk to people and being very willing to make sure it’s ‘on the sly’, or at least, so it’s stuck in with their normal scheduling. Talking about getting me my own income support, about women’s shelters, about emotional help. I didn’t even tell them about the murder attempts. Or maybe I did, using other phrases or word clues that they recognized, that I didn’t know I was giving.

They wanted to know, if I tested positive for dementia, what I wanted to be done. Would my partner care for me? Lots of other pointed questions.

A few years ago, I was free. But the government switched their position and so it was, it was the street or back in with my partner. I chose my partner. But if I ever leave again, there will be no going back. And the government has screwed me once. They can do it again. And I’ll have no backup, no net, no hope. I’ll be totally screwed.

The last (and only) time I tried calling a helpline, I hung up before they answered. My hands shook for hours after.

They’re going to have to do some almighty talking to make me think it can be a permanent freedom. If there’s a remote chance it can go sour I won’t even start it. I can’t take that kind of fear.

I’m too tired for this shit.

The other day, I asked my partner where the large ace bandages were. I’d done something to my knee while sleeping, suspect I’d laid on it in such a way the joint slid sideways slightly. It hurt like hades and was difficult to walk on. Now, I didn’t tell him why I wanted the bandage or what I think I’d done. I just asked him where the bandages were.

Two days later, he had a ‘broken rib’.

He can’t tolerate it when it isn’t him that is the sickest. Broken bones are the unprovable go-to for being suddenly, without reason, sick. His bones have been brittle in the past, but he’s been on the ‘normal’ scale for some years. Yet he can break bones by – breathing. Sitting. Laying down. When he has a broken rib, he finds it difficult to walk. Tells me constantly he’s an old man, now. He grunts with each step. Moans picking up a cup. Takes baby steps. The problem with all this – he only does it when he thinks I can see or hear him. He takes tiny steps until he can’t see me. Then he walks normally. It’s so incredibly childish. I tell him to go to the hospital. He says there’s nothing they can do for him. I think there’s only so much faking you can do and you can’t fake an x-ray.

This is only one example. It happens every single time.

And I’ve recently had a couple of things happen that have kind of freaked me out. He knows about one of them but not the other.

I was cooking some chicken legs. Put them in the oven, set the temp and the timer, gave them 30 minutes. The timer goes off, I check on them, and decide they need another 15 minutes. I could not, for the life of me, set the timer. I’d push the little clock icon and it kept telling me 17 hours – I couldn’t get it to change! (it was 5pm.) After messing with it for a few minutes I finally went to ask him for help. About 2 inches to the right of the clock icon is a dial, that you turn, to set the timer. Remember, I’d just set it 30 minutes previous! The second he turned it, I remembered, yeah, that’s how you do it. But when I was trying to do it…my vision kind of ended on the clock icon. I didn’t even see the dial just to the right. It wasn’t there. I didn’t think there was something there. It was just …blank. This hasn’t happened again since then, but that scared the crap out of me.

Then a few days later. I feel an abrasion on my finger. Look at it and see this scab like thing. My nose had been running so I thought it was a bit of dried snot I’d not noticed. Tried to wash it off. It didn’t wash off. I look closer. There’s a divot in my finger – a gouge about the size and shape of a long-grain rice, with this tiny, hard scab. It’s deep (rice size), but it’s not red. It’s not sore. No blistering. Just a gouge with a tiny scab. I have no memory at all of hurting myself. I have no idea how long I’d had it (must have been some time, it was pretty much healed by the time I saw it. Or noticed it, rather.) And that scared the fuck out of me. I didn’t tell him about it. I didn’t want to see what he’d do to himself to top that.

Come to think of it, I think he did top it. Maybe a week later we were expecting an amazon delivery and his medication. The door buzzes, he goes to answer it. He thanks the amazon guy, sets the box next to the door and goes into the kitchen. I ask what the delivery is. He bitches that the medical people only delivered one box. I’m looking at the amazon box. I tell him its an amazon box. He says his dry goods delivery got shorted, he’s only got one box. He has gotten very forgetful lately. But that kind of confusion, I don’t know. I do know it happened after the oven incident.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. The problem with dealing with a known lier is you can’t tell when they’re telling the truth. And I’m sounding paranoid. One of the tells for getting gaslighted is you start thinking you’re crazy.

Or, as one of my ‘friends’ once said, maybe you are crazy.

I did have an appointment to have an MRI, before an as yet unset appointment with the memory people. I had a massive asthma attack and had to cancel the MRI. I asked him to call the memory people to see if I could still be seen without it. The front desk woman wanted to ‘reschedule’ the (as yet unset) appointment for six months. Partner said that the decision was above her pay grade and to have the doctor call. The doctor has not called. He has not followed up on it. They already ‘lost’ me once, missing two years of follow-ups. I guess I’m going to get lost again. I could call, myself, of course. But for two things. I’ve developed some weird-ass phone phobia. And I have a real hard time with accents, I have to watch people’s lips.

One of the reasons I put these two incidences on this post was to help me remember them when I ever get to see the memory clinic again. It may not matter.

I’m tired. Not necessarily physically tired, but emotionally tired. I don’t feel like I have any endurance left. I can’t just keep on fighting it.

I’m also having some language problems and the social problems that come from it. But that is for another post.

I am a meat sack with no value.

Many years ago, I saw a meme/questionnaire or something, that posed this question.

A woman was at a funeral and saw a man she really liked. She wanted to know him better, but he left before she could talk to him. What did she do, to find and meet with him again?
Answer: she killed someone, so he would show up at their funeral.

To a sociopath, people aren’t people, they’re just meat sacks to manipulate into doing what is wanted.

First, Trump tweets something incendiary. Then waits.

Someone with a gun, usually young, white and male, goes out to kill those people that Trump doesn’t like. And, also, maybe these young white men don’t like. He is being patriotic by taking care of a problem Trump has identified.

Next, lots of people are dead, sometimes including the shooter, and a city goes into shock and mourning.

Trump announces he’s going to go visit them, at the place of shooting or survivers in hospitals. Sometimes, they ask that he doesn’t come, but he does anyway.

Protesters are fenced off a long way away.

Trump supporters are found and given the opportunity to meet with the president. They take selfies, lots of smiles, handshakes, and compliments. Media are not allowed in, but there are WH photographers there to catch the heart-melting moments.

This is a pattern that has happened how many times? 4? 6? Enough that I see a very distinct pattern.

Trump knows when he goes to these places of mourning, people will give him an ego boost. Trump’s handlers are making very sure of this, by ensuring the place he is at, brings in the Trump supporters. (Like the last one, with the infant that had been release, being brought back for a photo op. Babys, aww.*) How long have they been doing this?

To me, this is the pattern of a sociopath. In his case, it’s murder-by-proxy, with his twitter posts. Waits for the deaths. Goes to the place of the tragedy. Meets his supporters who shower him with love. He is desperate for the accolades. Repeat.

Trump knows what he’s doing. He knows some ‘crazy/patriot’ will go out and kill a lot of people. He’s not just okay with this, he needs it. He doesn’t see the dead people as people. They are pawns, just as the shooters are, in him getting what he needs. Approval. Love. Accolades. People calling him ‘sir’.

*When I first saw that photograph, of Melania holding the infant and Donald standing next to him, thumbs up and a big smile, my first thought was he’s happy because this infants Mexican parents were dead. I read that the brother of one of the dead parents said they were Trump supporters. So I guess they’re happy their baby got to meet their hero.

What does this have to do with me? It’s background anxiety, ratcheting up more each day. America, a country I love and respect, is going crazy. Russia, blows up a nuclear-powered rocket, echoes of Chernobyl. China is building up to a social cleansing in Hong Kong, reminiscent of Tiananmen Square. Central and South America are in melt down. The United Kingdom is pushing hard for a hard Brexit, cause …oh hell, that’s complicated. Dictators and death are on the rise. There is nothing I can do about it, except go about my daily life and hope I’m not blown out of existence some day. I’m collateral damage. I am a meat sack that has no value.