The Marriage That Wasn’t a Marriage
I was married for only four months in Blairsville, Georgia. Four months that felt less like a relationship and more like stepping into someone else’s crime scene. Within the first week, my ex-wife looked me straight in the eyes from her spiral stair case and said:
“I could kill you and make it look natural.”
She said it again. And again. Not joking. Not dramatic. Just cold. That was the moment the marriage stopped feeling like a marriage and started feeling like a threat. Mind you, someone did die of "natural causes" already in her in-law suite she built with her "dad" in the basement of her home, the fradulent marital home built on the slopes of Bliarsville city limits.
The Cracks Behind Closed Barn Doors
She became pregnant — something I contested the paternity of in and out of court, something the judge embedded in the Enotah district refused to hear. I discovered she had been cheating on me the entire time with someone she called her “true love.”
We slept in separate rooms in the first week of our marriage and her manipulation was starting to ramp up. Her "dad" also begain when his behavior shifted in ways that made me wonder what exactly is going on in that little tiny city covered in grey. I felt like someone was triggering another personality in my ex-wife that I was not privy to during our online dating, our year of long-distance courtship — something I now understand as connected to childhood trauma.
Nothing in that house felt normal. Nothing felt safe. From that attempted murder using the air-compressor and her "dad's" wiring skills to her family gatherings, to the hidden rooms and passageway she and her "dad" had built around the home and the support around the city as I was trying to run my 01-FFL Gun store.
The Night Before Thanksgiving
I stayed awake the entire night planning what I needed to take out of the marital home. I wrote a front-and-back letter explaining everything — the threats, the cause, the behavior, the reason.
That letter eventually went to the court, the GBI, the FBI. Later, after being jailed for trying to report what I believed was a child-grooming situation uncovered during the divorce discovery phase and as advised by my first attorney who filed for me; as well as the GBI, I posted it online.
I packed most of my firearms from the safe. My valuables. My clothes. I was packed in less then 20 minutes, truck fool, Reagan the floppy ear doberman in the passenger seat and had hit the road for the home I bought for in Sugar Valley.
But one thing was missing.
The Disappearance
While my ex-wife was out preparing for Thanksgiving family dinner, I went into the closet in the master bedroom which I conceded to her as she was pregnant and we were sleeping in seperate rooms, to grab the last of my things.
My USMC Dress Blues were gone.
Everything else was there. Everything I had packed. Everything I had planned to take. But the Dress Blues — the one thing that represented my service, my little bit of military identity, my history — were missing.
The Suspect
I knew exactly who would have taken them.
Her "dad" liked to play strange jokes. He wasn’t military, but he liked to pretend he was militant, as part of the ego-power trip given to him as the sole-IT contractor and vote counter as deputies opened the door for him to go into his office located in the Blairsville, GA County Court House basement. He liked to take and wear things that weren’t his. He liked to push boundaries that shouldn’t be pushed. We had quite a few conversations and he adored the KKK which is strange considering the abuse of children deemed white and their targetting of others. Although I must admit that I am more Scottish than the white geopolitical label used to divide & segregate.
He made comments about extremist groups — groups responsible for violence and intimidation — something that always felt off to me but great insight. Something that made the environment feel even more unsafe or explained the power structure underneath the top layer of manipulation.
One of those conversations steared into the “origin” of carry permits — which influenced this blog post: Carry Permits
I’ve always wondered if he took them. If he wore them and what he did while wearing them. If he used them as part of whatever twisted games that family played behind closed barn doors. People like to talk about witchcraft and wondered if that played a role in it.
The House of Odd Behavior
The houses of her "family"... she was adopted/fostered from Tennessee which was a big set of news discovered during the divorce as it was never mentioned, was full of strange comments, strange gatherings, strange behavior. People who acted like they were part of something secret, something dark, something that didn’t make sense until much later.
One of the mysteries for me has always been simple:
Where did my Dress Blues go?
They were the one of the only things I wanted to take that was missing. The only thing taken.
And the only thing I never got back which who knows who wore them or what they did while wearing them, I do not want them back but they should be cleansed and handled properly.
There was also about a 12 pound block of aluminum that was machined into a folding laptop as a parting gift from Marine Aviation Logisitics Squadron-36 in Okinawa, Japan that the unit had made for me. It was customized with carbon fiber, a unit coin, and a photo of all the Marines and Sailors that I was fortunate enough to serve with during those 3 years.