He’s Alive, Maybe

I’m digesting the possibility given new evidence that my international con artist husband may actually be alive.

It is possible that my upcoming court case will result in a judge’s orders which will start a chain of events to actually conjure up the insane old drunken vicious incompetent surgeon busily spending down my money with what is no doubt feverishness.

I’ve decided to write about it rather than say hunting him down and killing him, which, I suspect he might even welcome.

Given my experiences in Venezuela, the possibility that I would be capable of executing such a maneuver has never fully played out, but is doubtless a whole lot closer than for the average whitebread woman of my “breeding”. Given that the monster I married robbed me and essentially “killed” a part of me using brainwashing, gaslighting, malevolent hypnosis, isolation, and sleep deprivation over a course of 13 years, I suppose to some murder would be justified however to others I would simply never be trustworthy again, which is why I won’t. The opinion of those sorts of people matter to me. Therefore, my capability shall remain unknown.

Most laws are made with the understanding that ordinary people wish to preserve their good name and wish to make an honest living.

Since my husband doesn’t care anymore about his good name and has no need to make an honest living (thanks to me) he can easily elude the pathetic private and state apparatuses that would suppose to fulfill the multitude of court orders I’ve obtained at great cost but which have resulted in very little. Very little.

In other words, only “good men” are punished by the divorce courts. Bad men go right on being bad men right up until the moment they decide to be “good” and either emerge with their “good name,” which allows them to be identified, or attempt to make an honest living, which allows their money to be taken from them. Only poor men have to resort to petty crime, which also usually leads to identification. Wealthy, well-bred exotic foreigners with unusual manipulative skills have a whole field of easily misled overaged white women to feed on. Perhaps my husband has already landed his next victim.

Perhaps the two of them are reading this blog now. No. It won’t matter. Whatever she may read here will only validate what she has no doubt heard with regard to my madness and I’ll guess “selfishness”. That last needs to be part of the narrative so that she’ll deliberately behave otherwise, and out of “trust” in his judgment, give to him complete control over her own finances because he has “trust issues” and she means to resolve them by her “trustworthiness”. I remember how it works.

Sister, he doesn’t actually “distrust” you. Not at all. He “trusts” you to fall victim to this level of manipulativeness. He trusts you to believe that your heart and generosity with “heal” him. No. He only means to feed on that heart and generosity.

Amazingly, I found that I still had some left both in heart and generosity when my husband was done with me. I gave it all to Axel. Now I heartlessly educate others who chance to read this blog with the truth that I won’t “let go”.

My husband would need to fly back and forth to Europe and Hong Kong frequently in order to obtain cash but not so much as to not appear “cash poor” to his new lady fair, but oh well. He enjoys travel, as do I (when I could afford it). Funny how his enjoyment of travel itself is because of me, who shared with him my joy and experimental nature in the process. My joy and creativity were what was missing in his life and so he stole mine from me. I wonder what joy he intends to steal from his new lady fair.

His joy was in manipulating me like a tiny dancer in a music box by my heart and emotions and all things dear to me.

Perhaps I’ll one day find another job which gives me joy. It was Axel who gave me back joy, through him, through his joy and my joy in serving him. Now Axel is gone. His family is gone. His actions in his final days are inexplicable and disturbing. Of course I know that he was in terrible pain, had gone into psychosis, was under the influence of powerful narcotics, and had started drinking again, after being sober for 14 years.

I remember the good times which were what made up those four wonderful years together and miss him terribly. Eventually, the pain of the final days will recede. I hope that he is still with me, watching over me, as himself, not the strange person he transformed into during his final days but whom I did my level best to continue to serve every way that I could.

I suppose I should just “let it go” and somehow find joy doing something else since it would appear that the chance of there being a “someone” for the likes of me is unlikely.

I write this from a cheap motel in Northeast Florida where I was treated to the sounds of white people drunkenly yelling. The young male Indian proprietors had their hands full. They were making an honest living. Perhaps they’re hiring.

Perhaps I’ll find joy like my husband found joy, in my own destruction.

Thank you to all of you who contributed to my cause. At least I now have this new information which I wouldn’t have had otherwise, and so I’m glad I went. Meanwhile, the greater enterprise has been cancelled until further notice.

2 thoughts on “He’s Alive, Maybe

  1. Pingback: He’s Alive, Maybe | Manosphere.com

  2. Pingback: Go to Venezuela and Get the Death Certificate | caprizchka

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