Many that know me have known that I have a fascination with serial killers. I always have. Let me say that I don't condone their actions or what they have done. It's their minds that fascinate me. I grew up in the '70's and '80's. The last generation of the true serial killer. There have been so many and they span the world. With the exception of Jack the Ripper, much of my fascination are the American ones. Many of them are infinitely intelligent but they have that singular spark that separates them from those that don't kill to express themselves. It's that difference that is the interest. Not just that, it's the history. For me I have always been fascinated with history but not what's in the textbooks. I like to dig deeper. Many have just one era or period that they focus on. I have always been fascinated with all of it. This is where serial killers come in. Many of them have history and stories to become what they are. Not always the ones that come from battered homes or mothers that abandon them.
Why does it fascinate me? Seeing all the abuse that I have been through in my life, I can't find within myself to hurt another person. Yes I had a meltdown and slapped R. Had that been a mature relationship, we would have talked it out not long after. Instead he held to his knee jerk reaction and when it went too far, he couldn't take it back. He knew how far he had taken it when I was driving him to his bus. That's neither here nor there for this.
Some were abused, that's certain for a few. Many grew up in normal homes with normal families. Theories suggest that many of them were born with the predisposition to kill. Others it was triggered by something that happened to them. And still others? They became angry at what had been done to them that they focused on the kill. Columbine for example. I remember it fully. It was the first time that something like that had happened. Everyone talked about it. Everyone had their theories. It was all over the news. Two boys walked into their high school and began to kill those they felt had tormented them. They would kill themselves last to keep from being caught and spend their lives in prison. Not truly a serial killer partnership, but they did kill several of those in the school. They were teased unmercifully in school and as parents of that time did, did nothing over it. With the upswing now in cyber bullying and bullying in general, a little more is being done but honestly it's just to make people feel better. The truth is that things then and now haven't changed much. The same old excuses are given. "Kids will be kids." Things like that.
I was teased unmercifully in school. During 7th grade I was called fat for being roughly 125 pounds. So much so that I spent the entire summer barely eating. It was easy because Mother didn't believe in buying food. Her idea of a well balanced meal was Burger King. I still to this day have trouble eating there because it was all I ate growing up. If Marsha did decide to cook, it was rare. She didn't clean the house. She hated the idea of working. Why would I be surprised that she would think of anything like buying food? I wasn't to be honest. By the time I reached 8th grade I was 90 pounds. I had managed to drop all that weight over the summer. It was also helpful that I was drinking constantly and smoking weed during that time as well. Marsha didn't care. As long as she got child support, it didn't matter what I did. She hadn't even noticed the weight that I had dropped.
So it went from being fat to whatever else could be found. Mostly it was the fact that I slept through my classes. I passed most all of them save one. Algebra. Never been good at math when they put letters in it. What was done about it? Nothing. That was that time for you. Kids would be kids. They'll deal with it. Considering that all I had been through, this would be a good time for me to do what was done in Columbine, I actually didn't. Instead I tortured myself further and further. I was taught that you can replace things but you can never replace a person. So I took things out on myself instead of others. I was just a thing anyway. Still am, but again that's another story for another day. Instead of turning on those that tormented me, I turned on the one thing I always had access to. Myself. I also turned to drinking more and weed. Never did anything more than that. It was enough though. I was always numb and with enough of both I drowned out those that tormented me.
Like the serial killers that I've studied, I could have easily enough turned on those around me. Instead I turned my rage to myself. Writing, burning (was never a cutter) myself, locking myself away, and anything else I could think of to punish myself. I couldn't bring myself to hurt another person. So what was the difference between them and me? That has been the question I believe is what has driven me to look at them, be fascinated by them. This also shaped why I punish myself far more than anyone believes they could. I've come back to that with all that has happened with R. That place where I am trying to figure out what's the difference between them and I. He's condemned me that I'm like my ex-husband. G was the full picture of abusive. Physical, emotional, and mental. He beat me. He degraded me. He tortured me. He would excuse himself by saying it wasn't abuse because he used an open hand or that he was "teaching me to have a spine". I didn't go to the hospital for the wounds he gave me. I couldn't. Eventually they would figure it out and it would be worse. When Marsha had him arrested the first time, I was humiliated by the process. Pictures were taken of my face and the officers were basically condescending. The initial two that arrested G were good men. The rest just made me feel worse, like I was wasting their time. G always told me that if I did a "few more sit-ups" I could look like the women that sent him pictures. Of course they were drop dead gorgeous and I wasn't. If I was a bit more feminine that I might be attractive to someone, not him but someone. It would take more than that for me to be attractive to him. That I never kept the house clean enough for him. It wasn't easy with 2 children in the house and working as much as I could. It was clean. Hell could eat off of just about any surface, but it was never enough. He would call me 60 times a day and gods forbid if I didn't answer the phone. I would catch hell when he was home. I was only allowed to go out without him with one person. Even then he was calling me every few minutes. Where was I? Who was I with? When would I be home? Why did I have to go out? What was that in the background? Who else is with me? I'm lying that I was with just one person, the one I was allowed out with. Again gods forbid that I didn't answer or he thought I was lying. THAT is abuse. What I did to R was nowhere near the abuse that he claims. G isolated me from my family as much as he could. Those that were useful to him were okay. The ones that would loan us money to fill in what he had spent on strippers, alcohol, and drugs. Nine years I suffered all this. Finally when I couldn't take it any more, I asked him to leave. He went through the honeymoon remorse but right after he tried to kill me. Yes, I did learn my lesson then. Yet even with all that for nine years, my mother exactly the same before him, I didn't do it. I didn't snap and go on a spree. I could have. I didn't.
The torture that R is still doing to this day, exaggerating the story, lying about it, and being passive aggressive about the whole matter shows me that he is just as abusive as G, RSS, mother, and all of them. Yet he never laid a hand on me. I still love him. I want him back and I don't know which is worse. He convinced me that no one but him will have me and in that he's right. Who would? Or that he would convince anyone else to not want me.
I have spent years pouring over anything I could about killers and serial killers. I've spent years trying to find the answer to why am I so different from them? What one thing keeps me from joining their ranks? I have the knowledge. I've studied each of them enough to know. Yet I can't bring myself to. I can easily write about it. Even putting it all into a novel that I've started. Yet I can't bring myself to do it. I can't physically bring myself to cause harm to another person. One day I may find that answer and I guess I'll keep studying until I do. One day I may understand that one thing that keeps me from taking all that I have buried in me out on another person. Is it because I've been the one abused and still have a bit of empathy left in me? Is it because I actually have empathy at all? One day I'll learn what it is about me that is different.
Hemingway wrote, “There is no hunting like the hunting of man; and those who have hunted armed men long enough, and liked it, never really care for anything else.”
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