A Storm Named Ivan

Chapter 1

Approaching the end of a long and arduous marriage that just about killed me, I’ve learned that many people come and go like passing storms in our lives. Some are good and some are bad. But then there are the rare few, those who are terrible and cold. And it’s them that leave their mark, permanent scars on our hearts, never giving a shit about anything other than what feeds their God damned greed or lust, or as in this instance, both!

My storm to this day, years after the fact, is Ivan, my husband Ivan Dudnik, a Russian who was born on September 19th, 1999, a date that should live, no, a date that should burn in infamy.

It’s a date that would have silently been the day of my salvation, if only he’d not survived his own birth! But I guess even the foulest of bastards have a right to live and live he did, becoming the seed of a personal holocaust for me.

To give you an idea about some of his demographics, Ivan lives in Manhattan, around 52nd street, he’s 6’4” tall and weighs about 175 pounds when he’s not been given too much Crystal Meth, something he vehemently denies, but is a truth he cannot hide.

He has beautiful blue gray eyes and is very intelligent, too intelligent for his own good.

Depending on what day you ask him, he studies liberal arts anywhere from Brooklyn College to Manhattan College, to F.I.T., to Cornell University. But it’s all a lie, a lie predicated on the fact that he had to apply for a student Visa after they found out he’d forged his tourist one.

He makes a living as an independent artist, selling his ultra vane art on his personal website, Doobneek .com, as well as a slew of other social media sites. Oh, before I forget, he also refuses to report the income he’s made doing so, and is not allowed to legally work in The United States. But he’s never been one to obey the laws of anywhere he’s ever been, and is in fact a deserter from the Russian Army.

He’s also a prostitute who bill’s himself as being transgender, but is definitely not. And as far as law enforcement goes, he definitely has a price hanging over his sandy blonde head that he or any of his “Johns” can’t afford to pay.

Now if you wanna know if he's real or not, if you wanna know if I’m telling the truth about such an elusive scumbag actually existing, you can text or call him. His phone number is (917) 767-4065. His reply to any unfamiliar text, should you simply text him, “Hey sexy,” will be, “Are you Generous?” And his greeting message, if he doesn’t answer is, "My name is Yves,” a pseudo-self he created to hide the fact that he's nothing more than a perverse scumbag who's appeared in something like 78 porno films with both adults and children alike, under the name "Eves Doudnique.”

I only wish I'd known all of that before I met him that ill fated night back in 2019. But no such luck!

To be honest, I wasn't even in the fucking mood to go out that fucking day, June 28th, 2019. But it was the Friday before the Gay Pride Parade and I hadn't a fucking clue what to do to quell the raging loneliness that burned in my heart. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did, and nothing could have ever changed what was going to happen. The events of that night, and the next three weeks had been preordained at the altar of misery from the dawn of time.

Destiny had its plan planned well. And it had not even the slightest notion of allowing me to remain home, safely isolated from the likes of him.

No! That would have been too easy. But I guess we make our own fucking luck! So given the fact that at the time I only had 60 days of clean time, whatever I chose was never going to turn out good.

It was my destiny. I was always going to meet him. And I was always going to suffer, being punished for something I may have done in another lifetime, or in the altar existence I also existed within at that time. Thus, when all the excuses, all the chances to turn around, including the random chance of the subway not waiting for me with its doors opened had fallen by the wayside, I found myself walking in the door at The Trans Latina Project on 19th street. And even then, I would have used the excuse of the room being too packed to turn around, but for the god that sat in the corner, smiling at me.

I'd never seen anyone anywhere in my life like him. His eyes alone were portals to some heaven that had to exist within his beautifully perceived, though falsely assumed soul. And the fact alone that he was waving me over to sit next to him, giving me the chance to glance into those eyes was reason enough. I was going to stay.

Now, the meeting itself wasn't all that bad, although I haven't the foggiest fucking recolection of what the topic was. I don't know. Maybe if I'd paid even a little attention I would've never fucking overly noticed him and I would've left, But the truth was, all I wanted was for that meeting to end so that maybe, just maybe I could get a chance to say hello, or find out where he’d come from. And that’s exactly what happened.

I can't change that.

A few hours later I'd find myself bathed in tears of hopelessness, desperately waiting, hoping he'd show up, which would have been the best thing that would've ever fucking not happened to me in my sorry ass excuse of a life. But he did, being some five hours late. And after that, the rest is history.

Unbelievably, he showed up and we ended up hanging out all weekend and got married that Monday. So yeah. From the first night the wrecking ball was blindly given free reign to reap unrelenting damage, no, unrelented carnage in my life.

I mean from the first day the freak walked into my life there was pain, the worst fucking pain you could ever dare to imagine. And little did I know, or even realize until recently, was this kaos would go on, burning like hellfire, tearing down and almost ending the nice little life I was building for myself. And if you're wondering if the mother fucker had the whole thing planned out, I honestly know in my heart that you'd be hitting the nail right on the fucking head! It was like a work of fucking art, a disasterpiece beyon bibblcal proportions

Hook line and sinker, the freak had me from the word go.

That first night, when the fucking elevator door at my apartment finally opened to reveal his gorgeous silhouette at 3:00 am, I was in fucking heaven, the only problem being that I refused to see that it was the part of heaven they actually call hell. And let me tell ya’ll, I now realize that Ivan Dudnik is the fucking freak devil himself of that hell. He reaps ruination on every fucking thing he even looks at. It's just a fucking fact!

And it's fucking sad. So many people have put out their fucking hands to help this asshole, his worthless mother's bastard. But all he ever does is bite them. And you'd think we'd all learn after a while. But he's mastered it to the point where he knows enough to know that he has to put mileage between each subsequent sugar daddy that falls victim to his whoring freak ass and the next one!

So there are never any repercussions for him to deal with.

With that in mind, I can't fucking imagine how bad it's gonna be for him the day this book hits the air. That's why I've chosen to write it. After all, I wasn't going to protect him from the ties that bind forever.

Families protect their own.

So anyways, I’d met Ivan at a transgender/queer support group and what the fuck had I done? I invited the freak to spend the night at my apartment! Jesus fucking Christ! What a fucking collosal mistake. And as if that weren't bad enough, believing he might be falling for me, I tell the fucking guy he can move right the fuck in, rent free.

You have to know this was never gonna end anything but bad, really fucking bad!

Now, if you've read "Burning Bridges," the story of my addiction, you'll know that I'd suffered from the "Poor me" syndrome all my fucking life. And yeah, I really had been probably the loneliest bastard on the planet. So when the chance presented itself, what the fuck do I do? I fucking ask the piece of shit to marry me! And oddly enough he says fucking yes! But I thought he was dicking with me. So I told him to forget it. And what the fuck does he do? Fucking crocodile tears and then he asks me to marry him, knowing I hadn't the foggiest fucking notion that he was a full of fucking shit user looking for a cash cow to suck dry, the only problem being, I ain't no fucking cash machine!

But I am a fucking idiot, if only for the reason that I say yes and flip it around on him!

Needless to say, only a day or so after we’d met, we're marching hand in hand like 2 fucking demented clowns in the 2019 New York City Gay Pride Perade, me worshipping his pretty gorgeous fucking ass everytime fucking "Dancing Queen" plays?

Now we're approaching the part of the story that begins to tell the story.

After the parade he announces that he'll be going to "Paddles," a raging sex club, and that I'm to wait outside for him like a fucking dog. And sure as shit I do! But he literally can't find a dick big enough for his ass. So what the fuck does he do? He instructs me to go home and wait for him as he's been invited to get gangbanged in an underground sex party in Brooklyn.

Yeah, I know. I'm a fucking masochist!

I went home and did as I was told. And when the mother fucker had taken enough dick to wear out an elephant, what the fuck did he do He fucking headed to someplace called “The Ramble,” one of his favorite hangouts. And only after he’d proudly taken 4 more dicks did he come home, with me having prepared a 2 pound chuck steak smothered in onions and mushrooms to satiate his hunger.

It's only a fucking shame he didn't fucking choke on it and fucking die!

Chapter 02

I will say this about my sick bastard husband though, come that Monday he was marching me down to the courthouse to get married. So if even for half a day, he kept his fucking word, though be it to systematically ruin my life for the sole purpose of achieving citizenship.

The biggest problem with that though was that Ivan kept his word.

I would have been so much better off had he lied that one time, like the lying prick he is. But this truth was self servient. So there was never a fucking chance he was going to jip himself out of the freebie before his malignant ass.

Marrying me had a purpose. Sadly though, I would learn that lesson too fucking late. And when I did, I'd find myself falsely accused of domestic violence.

But we'll get to that.

Anyways, the day after we're married I bring my husband down to housing to register him on my case and what does he fucking do? He asks to speak to the worker in private. Seriously! I couldn't fucking believe it. And I was actually a little afraid I'd done something wrong. Too bad I couldn't see that I had. I'd married the mother fucker! Now, unbeknownst to my pathetic ass, the scumbag was going behind my back, right in front of me, hamstringing me, asking them if he'd be entitled to my benefits when he left.

Yep! Not if, but when he left me. So it'd been planned before there was even a plan.

He was always going to hurt me. I was just too fucking starcrossed to ever see it before it was fucking right in front of me.

What a fucking joke!

So now we have to deal with the landlord. But she won't put the prick face on the lease. And do I take even a second to think about what she's secretly trying to warn me about? Of course not! I'm a beaming proud fucking newlywed, swearing undying devotion to my treasure, a treasure that would have been, at least for my sake, better off buried under a fucking pile of leper's shit.

Thus I end up surrendering the fucking apartment. But we still had 10 days to figure something out. So it wasn't a problem, Besides, I had a fucking honeymoon to fucking enjoy. And let me tell you. That honeymoon was worse than trying to piss shards of jagged broken glass!

You see, the first night of the honeymoon,Ivan decides to drink a bottle of Canadian Club in our hotel room and tells me "We will never fuck! You are disgusting and I will never touch you!" I mean, right off the bat I'm thinking suicide.

Yep. As soon as he fell asleep, I was gonna hang myself right there in the hotel room. But I had my dog Sally Pickles with me. So I had her to worry about.

Anyways, to lighten the mood I decided to take us out to The Fire Island Pines nightclub for a little dancing. And I have to admit, I ain't never seen a mother fucker dance even close to what Ivan was doing out there on the dancefloor. But even that's a fucking skull fuck! The unimaginable Russian cock sucker starts making out with perfect strangers, right out there in fucking front of me. He even ran away from me at one point, begging people to fuck him.

It was fucking horrible to the point where I would have grabbed one of Suffolk's finest handguns if I'd thought they actually would have shot my now miserable ass.

I mean like, we'd only been together for a few days and already this marriage thing wasn't all it was fucking cracked up to be. I mean, three days after we'd exchanged vows and I was already looking to hang myself, or get myself shot! What the fuck else could happen?

Come the next day Ivan spent the entire day asking the fattest, ugliest people if they could fuck him in the woods, just beyond the dunes in public view, like he does in Central Park now. And when they refused, what does he fucking do? He grabs my poor dog's paw and tries to rip her out of my arms, screaming that he wants to get fu!cked by “Fat black men!”

So I pushed him away. And now he fucking had me.

"Look! You push me! Now we can say domestic violence and I will have citizenship!"

Citizen what? You're not a fucking citizen? Jesus fucking Christ! My fucking dreamboat had just sailed in and docked an illegal alien at my fucking ass! He wasn't there on no fucking student visa! He'd married me for a fucking green card! Oh my fucking God! Now I really wanted to fucking die!

There was no fucking way I was gonna go along with this crock of fucking shit domestic violence scheme of his!

I won't fucking do it! I'm a retired decorated federal fucking officer! What the fuck is wrong with you? Doesn't it mean anything to you that I just gave up everything in my life just to be with you, Ivan? Don't you know that if we go to the police without you having a scratch on you they're gonna look at us like we're fucking nuts?

You'll notice I wasn't exactly fighting him on the idea. But there had to be another way. And as sure as he's a rotten mother fucker, he had an idea, biting a sick ass fucking chunk out of the back of his hand!

"Look! Now we can say domestic violence and I get citizenship!" But again, I wouldn't fucking have any fucking part of it!

There was no fucking way I was gonna get myself locked up so this scumbag could ride Uncle Sam's coatails to a free ride on the immagration train to nowhere! No fucking way!

But this son of a Russian whore cunt just sat there nodding his fucking head, as if to say he held the cards. I couldn't fucking believe it!

He was forcing me to tip my hand.

Ivan, if you get me arrested you're gonna have the entire fucking Bonanno familly come down on you like a fucking atom bomb! But he had no idea who my family was until I told him. Then his whole fucking tune changed. Then he was afraid.

So anyways, at that point I basically knew he was never planning to stay in the first place.

His plan had been to skip from ice patch to ice patch, avoiding the sea of legal problems that awaited him, But we'll get to that later on.

Right then and there I had to figure out a way to get this marriage out of stormy waters, hoping that maybe, just maybe this selfish Russian fuck might actually fall in love with me.

But even at that, he kept telling people I'd abused him.

And in the end he ran away for a few hours and ended up getting fucked, just the way he'd fucking wanted, in plain sight of the perverse crowd.

I'd married a fucking deviant.

Now it was time to make our way home, to a home that would no longer be home in a short week or so.

Chapter 03

I have to tell ya’ll, I must have been either the most desperate or sickest of fucks. Maybe I was both, believing I could somehow win this young and extremely attractive sick bastard's heart. I mean yeah, there was no way. But all the same, I was gonna try. What the fuck did I have to lose. The very worst that could happen was he'd fucking take me for all I had and walk the fuck out.

We'll get to that part of the story a little while later. But yeah, it fucking happens.

Right now my task was simply to get my husband and my farce of a marriage home in one piece so I could figure out what the fuck I was gonna do!. And don't think that was an easy task. With Ivan looking at every cop as if he'd could cash in his golden fucking ticket for a domestic violence citizenship, the thought of offing myself had not gone the way of the Dodo. But I remember thinking that if I could figure this out, the way I always figure things out, maybe, just fucking maybe there would be hope.

And yeah, I'll fucking admit it. I was fucking stupid like a mother fucker for even attempting to save something that was never even really there. But what dream ever is?

Seriously. Tell me about a single dream that didn't begin reaching for what couldn't be seen.

Like the song says, "The Impossible Dream."

Anyways, the train ride home was quieter than Lincoln's funeral procession to Illinois. We hardly even spoke until I felt him take my hand. At that alone, I burst into tears like a little fucking boy who'd just found his way home. And maybe it was metaphorically just that. I mean, my whole life people had abandoned me before I could even know they were ever even there.

My first boyfriend hung himself after we'd had the stupidest fucking argument. He never said goodbye. My next boyfriend went out to get us slurpees and got shot because of some money he owed someone. He never said goodbye. After him, my fucking boyfriend at the time moves away in the middle of the night. He never said goodbye either. And then there was John, who I lived with for 17 years. He just moved out one April morning while I was at work. He, as well, never said goodbye. Oh, and let me not leave out my mom, who abandoned me when I was 12, leaving a goodbye note for my brother, saying nothing to me. Then finally there was Phillip, my drug dealer and truest of loves, not for the drugs however. He was just gone one day. And you guessed it, no goodbye. I mean Jesus fucking Christ! Am I that horrible a person that not a living soul could so much as let me know they were going?

Anyways, I remember sitting there, looking out the train window, feeling like there was no fucking way I was going to survive if Ivan did this to me! I refused to.

Anyways, by the time we get home I'm agreeing to cook for him since he was hungry from dipping his fucking dick inside of god knows who.

I just knew it wasn't me. I was just the fucking shlep who was stuck picking up the fucking pieces

On top of that, I was given the task of doing his laundry, proofreading a statement he'd written for immagration, and cooking him a second dinner for when he got home from the gangbang off of 174th street he'd been invited to be the victim of.

So yeah, wasn't I the happy fucking bride.

The next morning was kind of hopeful though. He actually said we might have sex if I'd let him have over some nasty as fuck guy he'd met on Grindr. But when that time came he locked me in the bathroom and fucked the guy in our bed.

Yeah I know, allowing that to happen should’ve qualified me for a personal fitting for a padded cell. But what else did I have to do other than trying to desperately win Ivan’s non-existent affection.

He was all I had in the world to hope for.

And don't get your fucking hopes up. There's no one there for me now either. But again, we'll get to it.

It's just another impossible fucking dream with an old flame.

Now I'm not gonna say that every moment of every day with Ivan was fucking terrible, though they more than probably were. But still, the fucking look on people's fucking faces when we walked into anywhere we were going made some of what I'd been going through almost worth it.

I mean, no fucking Peacock had anything on me at that point in time. I'd married a fucking god in their eyes. But what they didn't know was that god was the fallen Lucifer, himself!

It was nice for once in my life, having people jealous of something other than my educational abilities though. Ivan was a trophy, a monument, to all the suffering I'd endured in my worthless fucking life. He was the culmination of every dream, every hope I'd ever dared to have. He was the answer to every single time my parents reminded me that I might have to settle for something short of the fucking god that'd stood at the alter and looked in my fucking eyes, even though even that was a fucking lie. He was all that mattered.

I just wish it could have lasted even 1 more night.

People look at Ivan and often ask what my favorite memory of being his husband is. And they always assume it's gonna be some sexually charge event. But it isn't. And why should it be?

Ivan wasn't some hookup. He was my husband. And as such, my favorite memories are of the look on his face every morning, after I'd gotten up before him to serve him breakfast in bed, and every time he grabbed my hand to hold it.

Those were the things that mattered most to me!

Anyways, we're married and on shaky ground, yet still working on getting what we wanted from each other. My hope was that he might fall in love with me, his being that I might allow him to just go out and fuck whoever he wanted. And maybe I should've, if I could've.

But I couldn't. Ivan was my universe, my existence.

One day on the subway, Ivan turned to me and declared that I didn't love him, but was instead addicted to him. And I know he was right. But I also loved him. I loved him more than I loved my own life. The problem though was that he hadn't the slightest fucking bit of feeling for me, and I was too stupid to accept that.

Chapter 04

I have to admit, even though it was flawed, I was still happily married to Ivan. Even though he'd drag me all over creation so he could get his ass pounded by every black man that would have him, I was happy. And even though I knew at a certain point that he probably had no intention of staying, yes, I was still content, content that he was just there.

I mean it enthralled me just to know that I could breathe in the same air that had come out his lungs at night as we slept in the same room. And I'll go as far as to even admit that to almost this day I still felt the same way.

Yeah I know what you're probably thinking, obsessed. But it's not! I just loved him that much. I couldn't help it.

Good, bad or indifferent, Ivan was my life. And for some reason that annoyed him. And I kinda knew that was the case. But I didn't care! I just didn't care. There had to be a way. I'd spent my entire life dousing the flames of fucking turmoil. I'd learned to jump from ice patch to ice patch without getting my feet wet. So why couldn’t I get the son of a bitch to love me?

It didn’t make sense.

Refusing to fail, refusing to experience the pain I'd felt being unable to win Phillip’s affections, I was going to find a way. For now though the only road forward meant that I had to allow my husband to remain promiscuous.

So I went along with it, meaning many sleepless hours.

Ivan was part of an underground sex network that thew parties 4 nights out of every week. Now had I known then what I know now, I would have never stood for it, especially after learning that these parties catered to boys 14 years of age to 30. But I didn’t know, or else I would’ve thrown him the fuck out.

Anyways, my biggest fear was that Ivan would end up following someone home and end up leaving me. But I couldn't tell him that. So instead I told him I had nothing better to do than wait outside these parties, waiting for him to come out and go home with me. And let me tell you, it was fucking terrible.

One particular night he came out bragging about how he'd gotten fucked in the ass by 6 different black guys. It fucking destroyed me. But what could I do? I still loved him.

The problem with that was he didn't love me. He didn’t love anyone who wasn’t black, and well endowed.

With that in mind, my argument that Ivan had married me for the sole purposes of getting a green card and bilking me out of as much money as possible was strongly enforced.

Ivan's only care was his sexual escapades. As long as there'd be an opportunity he'd run like the wind to get pounded as if he were some vile worthless fucking slut on the street. And it wasn't like he really needed to portray himself as such. Ivan is fucking godlike! And I haven't a clue as to why he bills himself as anything other.

But what I believed didn't matter to him in the least.

I was constantly making him aware of that. But it fell upon deaf ears. And it finally got to where it was literally destroying our marriage, to the point that I almost walked out on him. The only hope being that he'd finally agreed to go see a marriage counselor, Gustavo, came to pass though.

So finally there was hope.

That first appointment went better, beyond any dream, than I could imagine. It was amazing. Ivan saw light in every point I bought up, even sympathizing that he'd been more than unfair to me. I mean fuck! He even suggested that we write out a contract of reasonable requests, that we could gently point things out when the other went astray. But it was flawed.

This was not like him.

At some point during the meeting, Ivan brought up a previous appointment to get fucked, though he wouldn't clearly say that in front of Gustavo. And when he walked out the room without so much as a look, I knew what I knew. He was never coming home that night. He was never coming home again. And when I pointed that out to Gustavo he accused me of projecting negativity. But I was certain. And unfortunately, I was right.

Ivan chose to go out to Jersey City and get high on Crystal Meth that night. He left me, basically killing me.

When the message popped up that he’d blocked me from texting him, I tried to kill myself, swallowing 9000 milligrams of Vistaril, 3500 milligrams of Trazodone, and 3000 milligrams of Viagra, along with a pint of ass tasting Georgi vodka when all had been said and done that night. By the time all was said and done, I’d succeeded and was in fact dead for 2 minutes and 11 seconds. And I wished I'd have died that night and not been snatched back by that goodie two fucking shoes ass hole doctor.

The pain was beyond unbearable for me.

When they called Ivan, needing permission to ventilate me that night, his words were, "I hate him! Let him die and throw him in garbage!"

Unfortunately for him though they called my mom and she made them aware of the situation. So here I am today, telling you of my pain and anguish.

In the end, at least at that part of the nightmare, the sum of all my fears had been realized.

Ivan ended up calling me the very day I was to be discharged from the hospital. It seems they'd kept him drugged the 18 days I was hospitalized and had dumped him naked and beyond tweaked out in the street. And it was bad. He couldn't even figure out how to put his fucking clothes on. So what does he do? He calls me at the hospital, blames me, but asks me for my help.

It was the darkest of days for me.

Ivan ended up meeting me at Gustavo's office, where I'd told him to go for help. But he wasn't coming back. And on top of that, I ended up losing the studio that him and I had moved into, the place where I took my life. Thus, I was placed in another shelter.

It's just so fucking sad to remember. But I do, that you might read about it. What the fuck else do I have to do with all this raw emotion?

Ivan never loved me as I found out a few days ago, He didn't even fucking like me. He'd just needed a place to stay that night. So he literally ruined whatever was left of the rest of my life so he would have a fucking place to rest his manipulative fucking head.

Chapter 05

I guess I should mention that up until very recently I still loved Ivan. I don't know. Maybe I did. I just don't fucking know at this point! But he just never loved me. And there's nothing I can do to change that. So what's the use?

Yeah! I know. It fucking sucks!

Now I'll be as candid as to tell you this. Even writing about my husband triggers the most raw of emotions. And it got to be a bit much for me back in June. So what the fuck did I do? I tweaked, grabbed a fucking needle and overdosed like I ain't never before, 3 8balls.

It was the most I ever slammed!

Needless to say, I shouldn't be here, pounding away at the keyboard right now. I was really that fucking horrible! I literally had to lie there, forcing myself to breathe for a couple of days, too tweaked to realize I was seizing like a mother fucker.

Anyways, Ivan had walked out of my life if you can call it that. I mean like, it's not like he'd actually fuccking been there in the first place. But we were still in touch, meeting at support groups for the Queer and Transgendered. And I gotta tell y'all. The mother fucker wasn't there for no support other than the endless stream of dollars he kept milking out of my pocket.

Other than that, Ivan's soul purpose of attending these groups was to learn how to act the part, any part that could facilitate further funding for his Meth and sex addictions, plain and simpple. I mean, believe me when I say if someone let Ivan know he could get money fucking goats, the mother fucker would bill himself as a compulsive goat fucker. That's no lie. All you have to do is look at the bio on his porn page.

Did I mention that? Yeah, the vike slut bastard has been in 78 full length porn movies. Who, other than the lowest of the low, does that?

Anyways, in his bio, he proudly declares, "I've done it all and would do it again," And he has, even the worst 3 things you could imagine, Children, Animals and Scat. My sick husband has done it all. I'll point out that I only found that out after he was gone though.

Now I'll clearly state that I do not approve of his activities and that I have made law enforcement aware of his little sex parties! And trust me when I say I told them everything! So that feeling of tightness Ivan might feel around his fucking neck is nothing more than the rope they've hopefully given him to hang his Russian ass!

In the meantime, the status quo was as short lived as our time together. Ivan was pushing me further away. Further away until the point came that I had to stand up for myself.

I've seen enough marital violence to last 6 lifetimes. So, when Ivan's physical abuse towards me, when his neglect of me, when his larceny of my funds became all too much, I had to let go and secure a restraining order against him.

It was a desperate matter of survival.

And to prove the point of just how Ivan becomes anything that'll benefit his self, what the fuck do you think he did? You guessed it. The son of a fucking Soviet whore bastard secured one against me! And I didn't even do anything to the mother fucker!

But there it was, proof that this bastard, who could've made the universe a far better place had he not survived birth, really didn't love me. I mean, even the fucking judge knew his narcissistic ass was lying under oath. But what could be done? This wasn't a trial of truth, but rather a proceeding to establish safe distance.

Ivan's entire marriage to me had been predicated on an endless stream of lies. Seriously! And who even knows if we're legally married, my guess being he probably has a string of husbands, a harem if you will, around the fucking globe.

Why else would the deviant fucker have spent years, fleeing from country to country?

Anyways, at that point, Ivan took the fight to me, systematically going around to every support group, every venue in the fucking city he knew that I would visit, spinning tales of me being violent and abusive. And it was terrible! People who knew me for years suddenly found themselves doubting the person they'd come to know in me.

He had isolated me, leaving me alone with both the emotional and physical pain he'd caused me. And that's when I picked up and started jabbing needles in my fucking arm again like a fucking madman on a mission to end my suffering.

With nowhere else to turn, I had resorted to slamming copious amounts of Crystal Meth again, something that drove Ivan even harder, his want of meth fueling his manipulative Russian ire. And as bad as that could be, that's when it got worse.

Now the mother fucker took to the streets, finding out anyplace I could lie my head, showing up on an almost nightly basis, getting gang banged by every black male he could convince he was a civil rights activist, a total fucking lie.

And what could I do? The men who were pounding him didn't know what I knew about Ivan. The twisted mother fucker only, yes only cares about black dick! He'd told me so himself!

As we walked through High Bridge Park his exact words were, "Rose. (My nickname) I don't really care about ignorant black people. I just like that they have big dicks. If not for that, they belong in Moscow zoo."

So as you could imagine, it wore on me and yes I tried to kill myself again, shooting up 2 8balls of crystal meth, the elusive, "Boxcar," something only a few people can survive.

It's not exactly the popularity I spent my life pursuing!

I don't remember much about it, other than watching tiny gremlin like creatures scurrying down the sidewalk, waiting their turn to get fucked by some devil with goat like horns, wrapped in a bloody loincloth. Haha! It was psychosis at its fucking best, something I'd only experienced when I'd been awake for 11 days, the first time Phillip slammed an 8 Ball in my veins!

So I'm no fucking angel! But I'd never planned on being driven to that state of depravity again, especially by the man I'd devoted all of my eternity to.

Ivan, realizing that he'd never so much as receive a fucking chard of meth from me began filing false police reports, claiming I was physically abusing him. And with the NYPD being too fooled to take a glimpse at his 6 foot 7, 20 year old ripped frame and realize there was no way I would ever be able to overtake the fucking giant, I was subsequently charged.

Needless to say, I'll never date anyone I can't defend myself against again!

If they only knew the fucking brutal beatings I suffered at the hand of Ivan! But I couldn't say anything, less my family found out and gave him a piece of property in Jersey.

7 times the detectives, with the exception of 1 good woman, Detective Daughter, saw fit to grab themselves a faulty collar at my expense. And while she still filed the collar, subsequent conversations with her have revealed the fact that she's probably the best cop in all the NYPD. I just wish I would have taken her up on her offer to connect me with the fucking I.N.S. Because had I done so, Ivans criminal ass would have been sent back to Russia long ago. It just wasn't the time for that. But it even got worse.

While I was in custody, Ivan had murdered my PTSD service dog, Sally Pickles.

After that I rang off a string of 11 suicide attempts, even grabbing hold of the third rail. God fucking damm that service interuption. I guess that's what the tape across the platform meant. They were doing track replacement! I had no fucking luck! I couldn't win for fucking losing.

Chapter 6

This is the point where, having lost my faith in a god who saw fit to allow my hope in eternity to become a curse on my life, I began to break down, both mentally and spiritually, tormented that Ivan had killed my dog Sally Pickles. This is the point where, come judgment day, Ivan will perish in eternal torment. And if I have mercy enough to forgive Ivan it is only because come that day an irate Yahweh will not.

I will stand in forgiveness that day, penitent of the anger I spewed at God for the pain this man caused, not so much me, but my dog.

Yes, I will watch as The Seraphim Angels, the administers of Hell’s punishment rip the flesh from his fucking bones and torment him with hellfire in the dungeons of Hell for the remainder of eternity. But I’ll clearly, also let it be known, it was not my intention to see him there. Then, even though I’d not sought this, I will be vindicated. And the ultimate torment, something not possible of being handed down by any husband, cousin or Bonanno will be cast upon the mother fucker who put a ring on my finger, only to ruin my life.

Come that day, and only that day, will the wound that mother fucker left in my heart be healed.

Other than that day, there is but one person who could ever heal my broken heart enough that I could stop spending my days wanting to commit suicide, Phillip. But he's never coming back, yet another price of having loved Ivan.

It's just the way it is.

Ivan was a curse cast upon my soul for crimes I can't speak of, being related to the different life I secretly live. I don't know. Maybe he was sent to torment me for the many I have made go away. Anyways, so much for statute of limitations if that be the case. But I was just a fucking drug addict, still reeling from years of sexual abuse when I was a child.

Jesus! Just remembering that confirms the fact that Ivan was my sentence, not the answer to my prayers.

In the days that followed the catastrophic loss of my baby, Sally Pickles, the only place I could find safety was in the waiting room of my doctor, the same doctor who took pictures of the countless bruises Ivan left when he'd come up behind me, knock me to the ground and kick my ribs in.

Luckily, these days things like that can't happen anymore.

Eventually I couldn't hide it from my family and my cousin found out and the worst almost happened. And if not for the fact of what my father hid for our family, and the fact that I know exactly where certain unmentionable parties are buried, I wouldn't have been able to pull rank, as titular as it was.

I don't know. Maybe I didn't love the fucking guy. Maybe I just enjoyed the beatings. Who the fuck knows.

Between that time and now I moved back home to Orlando twice. But foolishly returned pained by the fact that Ivan stood in the way of Phillip ever accepting me.

God! That hurts as bad as the fucking loss of losing Sally Pickles. But at this point I've given up and will bear all of Phillips' sins in my next book, "Meth God. The Phillip Snyder story."

But that's a different storm of a different kind.

Ivan's was a storm unlike any other. His was a deluge of lust filled greed, seeded by a whoring Soviet era cunt who filled his mind with falsehoods. His was the story of a kid who grew up with nothing, deserved nothing, and yet went ahead to ruin the life of the man who would have willingly enslaved himself so that he might have had a better life.

And even at this, it got even worse.

At a point in time where, like an idiot, I’d begun sending Ivan a thousand dollars a month support money, I lost my debit card and was unable to pay my landlord, who only accepted cash.

Then there was a solution.

Ivan had offered that if I transferred the money to him that he would withdraw the money and hand it back over to me, so that I would be able to pay my rent. But there was a problem.

Once I’d transferred the money to him, Ivan told me to go fuck myself, and that he didn’t care that robbing my rent money would leave me homeless. And that’s what happened, right at the beginning of the pandemic.

But it didn’t matter to me at the time as I figured maybe he’d pay his own rent, which he of course didn’t

Instead he spent the money on a webpage where he eats fecal matter from the asses of elderly fat black men who treat him like an ugly little girl named Yves Doudnique, his stage name. And it's even gotten to the point where a couple of nights ago I watched some frankenstein looking mother fucker shove his entire foot inside of Ivan's not so pretty anymore ass.

I'm just glad I was never part of that twisted lunacy, and I’ve blocked him from sending me any more of his films.

I no longer want any part of that man and will not stand in the way of Sicilian justice if it ever goes looking for him. In the end I actually gave Orlando one final try, and I made it, regaining everything I lost to Ivan, even a service animal.

So he's no longer a part of my life. And I no longer give him a thousand dollars every payday either. I mean, why should I?

He just doesn't matter to me anymore, and I would absolutely never take him back if he ever showed up at my fucking door!

Last time he approached me on the street, an approach that was quickly intercepted by one of my very large cousins, he bragged about having an income of $75,000 from his porn career.

With that in mind, I wonder what his reaction will be when he finds out my contacts at ICE and the IRS are now aware of his undeclared income? But like I said, it no longer matters to me what happens to him. Although, I have every intention of sending mis mother, father, and grandmother copies of his porn films, if I’m ever able to find their email addresses. But even that’s not a priority to me.

To quote Frederick Nitschke, the father of existentialism, "The greatest formula for vengeance is success, provided the basis of success be not based on vengeance!"

So with all that behind me now, like I said, I recently decided, having found out that I have stage 3 cancer, to return to the city that I had adopted as my home a very long time ago, Orlando, Florida.

I plan on spending my remaining days here forgoing treatment. I mean what's the fucking point? The storms I have endured, Ivan being the worst, have left my landscape barren of any hope, any tomorrows. So the plan is to just enjoy the rest of my life alone, accumulating as many creature comforts as I can.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll forgo fun.

Being the purest of adrenaline junkies, my plans are as follows, everything extreme. I mean fuck, I might even go over the falls in a fucking barrel, literally.

And why shouldn't I?

Everyone I've ever loved is gone now. And for shit sure, there's more than likely never gonna be anyone for me. But even at that I’m ok. After all, I've suffered and survived everyone else, including the storm named Ivan.

So now it's my turn.

Chapter7

As for Ivan, along with the matter of our divorce, I’ve taken the fight to him now. In light of all the games he played, refusing to give me a valid address to send our divorce documents to, I’ve decided to proceed with him being in a state of absentia. So I will have final say in all the charges against him, something that he’ll fuccking loathe when he finds out I’ve actually divorced him.

But such is life.

Ivan Dudnik did everything he could, attempting to ruin my life, including the killing of my dog Sally Pickles. So why should I feel even the slightest compassion towards his diseased soul? I mean like, I don’t go out of my way to physically harm him and never have. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to stomp my legal heel down any time fate places his throat under it!

He just doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.

I no longer send him support money, and only did so briefly. I no longer speak to him, or worry about his well being. It no longer matters if he gets deported or not! And I’m certainly not even going to grant him the courtesy of letting him know when our divorce is finalized.

Ivan was just a person who did everything he could to hurt me! Like a storm of unimaginable destruction in my life, his sole purpose was to bring ruination upon me. But in the end I am only the better for all the terrible wrongs he did me.

I’ve stopped using Crystal Meth. I gave up my apartment in New York City and I moved back to my beloved Orlando, securing an apartment in the coveted historic district, Lake Eola Heights. I’ve gone back to the gym and I’ve been given the privilege of being able to volunteer at the church I attended, long before I gave my life over to addiction. I’m even considering entering the seminary, so that I can preach the word of God, warning all creation about wolves such as Ivan Dudnik.

So in the end, even though I had to swim through the endless rivers of shit Ivan rained down on my life, I came out squeaky clean, smelling like roses. And even though the crimes he committed still exist they no longer do me any harm.

I survived the storm!

I’ve cleared away the wreckage of his storm surge and I’ve built a new life on solid ground, the “Rock of sobriety and Salvation.”: On top of that, I no longer give my support to people of the trans experience, or those like Ivan, who bill themselves as being “Non-gender conforming,” something he may or may not be.

Remember, Ivan Dudnik, aka Yves Doudnique, aka Doobneek is a con artist who lies for a living.

He’s a sociopath with a vanity complex unlike anything I’ve ever come across. And remember, I worked as a mental health counselor on a forensic psych ward, a place where he’ll undoubtedly someday reside, if someone doesn’t kill him for infecting them with herpes first, something I was fortunate enough to avoid.

I mean like, in all those years on the job, both as a psych care giver and a Federal Officer, I never came across a nutcase like him, and I’ve had the displeasure of having to watch over what was considered to be the worst of the worst.

But Ivan is even worse.

He is deliberate and intends to use people, even the black guys he swears to advocate for, from the moment he sets his eyes upon them. He’s told me so, even as recently as a month ago. Unfortunately though, like I once was, they’re too blind to see it. But fuck em. They’re not my problem. And if they had any common sense or decency, they wouldn’t be sleeping with Ivan’s married, Herpes ass in the first place.

So who cares if he gives them Herpes? Who cares if he hides money from them in some secret account he bragged about the last time we spoke?

It’s not my concern, although I’d do anything to see the look on their faces the day he grows tired of them and splits town.

Chapter 8

Now, having said what I have to say about Ivan Dudnik, I take stock in who I once was, and who I’ve become, all that he took from me and everything I have regained.

Remembering that I was once weak and unsure of myself, I realize that I was nothing more than a self loathing soul who gave everything over to the likes of overconfident criminals like Ivan. They were those who again, like Ivan, made a life of traveling the world, taking everything they could from anyone like me who was naive enough to trust them. And believe me when I say, I allowed them to take away everything that I owned, including my soul. But I survived!

And all that I lost, what does it equate to?

Stuff is just stuff. It’s here today, gone tomorrow and replaced as soon as you pick yourself up and take the time to pick out even better. So, other than the two years I lost to Ivan’s devious treachery,what did I really lose? What did he, being the worst of my decisions, take from me that I have not replaced?

With the exception of the loss of my dog Sally Pickles, I am intact, and in far better health than when I met him, even with the cancer. I’ve returned to the gym, working out 4 days a week, and I’ve actually regained the weight that I lost due to the stress he and the drugs had me under.

And speaking about those drugs,I’m now clean and sober and I have a lucid mind. But I’m not content. I’m not going to allow myself to stagnate and risk allowing the wrong people in my life.

One of the last things Ivan said to me before I finally blocked him a few weeks ago, was that I was always going to be an active addict and that I was always going to be a loser. But he was wrong from the moment he said that.

I’ve overcome Ivan, proving that what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger, something my dad taught me.

I’ve made a new life for myself in my beloved Orlando, finding an amazing apartment in the coveted Historic District, Lake Eola Heights. I’ve accumulated a new wardrobe, new jewelry, and even a new pet, my cat Marcy Pickles. On top of all of this, I’m carefully learning to make new friends, and I’ve learned to set reasonable boundaries to protect myself from meeting anymore creeps like Ivan,

But there’s an even bigger lesson I’ve learned in all this.

I’ve learned to love myself, and that I’m ok being me. I’ve learned that it’s better to be alone, and much more enjoyable than being in the company of those who would do me harm or feed me Crystal Meth just so that they can have a free ride.

I’ve given up getting high, and no longer feel the need to numb myself for fear of hurting anymore

I had a good life once. But then I got involved with a drug dealer named Phillip. Then I let someone named Jason, another drug addict in my life. Then, when you’d think a person couldn’t make any worse decisions, I let Ivan in, sinking from one imaginable low to another, foregoing all of my dignity. But it was never destiny’s intention to allow me to remain in the gutter with the likes of them, especially Ivan.

Thus, I have begun anew, knowing the difference between wrong and right.

Moving forward, as is stated in The Bible, I will judge those who I cross paths with by the fruit they bear. If their fruit benefits me, and is not contrary to what is right, I will greet them as acquaintances, being cautiously open to a dialogue of friendship. And those who fail to bear good fruit, those who would do me wrong, I will walk away from, wanting nothing to do with them.

And if that sounds judgemental, then so be it.

Recovering from what Ivan put me through, as well as getting clean from Crystal Meth, I’ve been granted a kind of wisdom that fosters a peace in my soul, a peace that I protect. So I’m not taking any chances. I’m not going to open myself up, hoping a person will change. No sir! I’ve come too far to go back to the life of abuse and addiction that just about killed me. And with that being said, there will be no more Ivans, or anyone remotely like him allowed in my life anymore.

I base the life I now lead on certain pillars, people whose words helped me to survive what I’ve been through.

These people were my father and mother, my grandfather, my grandmothers, and such alike. They were Mr Joseff, and Julio Morales from Davidson Avenue. They were people like Lydia from the shelter I stayed in on Mohegan Avenue and Joan Callahan from Project Renewal. They were Detective Daughter and the officers who arrested me because of the lies Ivan told them. They were Kailley, whose very words were the sermon that released me from my addiction and all the people whose words were thought to have fallen upon deaf ears.

Theirs were the words that were the caution signs I used to climb out of the coffin that had become my life, a coffin that both Ivan and addiction created for me. They’re the words I take to mind every time Ivan or someone wanting me to get high calls.

Chapter 9

I’ve Learned that life is nothing more than a series of seasons whose outcomes are based on the decisions we make immediately prior to them. And with that lesson being painfully learned, I’ve become deliberate, and cautiously slow when it comes to making any decision regarding the allowing of anyone in my life, even to the point of being selfish, as far as my time goes.

And that’s actually something I’m grateful to Ivan for.

Had I not allowed Ivan, literally the worst wretch a person could ever begin to even imagine in my life, I might have never realized that I’m worth more than a million of him to myself. And maybe that’ll come across as being a little pompous. But I’ve earned that privilege, having had enough grace rained down on me to survive the most horrible of addictions. So you’ll have to excuse my being so proud of myself. It’s just the way it is.

Being nothing more than an excuse to shoot up, Ivan was never actually the reason I became addicted to Crystal Meth again. No person other than myself was.

There was a defect within my character that never allowed me to become intimately close with anyone, and Crystal Meth helped me to overcome that. So when events in my life, such as Ivan leaving me came about, I’d shoot up, not wanting to be alone anymore. So as bad as he was for me, Ivan never possessed the self worth to cause such a problem for me. Only I had that lack of power over myself.

So you’ll not find me pining, or crying over the departure of him from my life anymore.

At this point of my recovery from addiction and Ivan’s abuse of me alike, I’ve come to realize that I never really loved him. He was merely there to play the part of a facade, meant to take the focus off of how horrible of a person I thought I was.

As far as Ivan goes, in the end he was nothing more than a perverse, extremely shallow soul who became jaded at the prospect of having to go out and earn his way in life. And as far as his artwork goes, I find it to be nothing more than trite, as well as extremely unoriginal. But still people buy it, though only after he throws his body at their wretchedly old asses.

Chapter 10

From the moment I first laid eyes on him, I’d thought Ivan to be some sort of god, sent down from the heavens to rescue me. But when all had been said and done, he’d become nothing more than Saturn, gobbling up his children, laying waste to the man who'd dared love his pathetically diseased, whoring ass. But now I’m the one who walked away, refusing to allow him to take up space in my heart, mind or wallet anymore.

And yeah, maybe I would’ve supported him, having a 6 figure income now. But why would I when he lied about me and never even gets in touch with me, to see if I’m even alive.

And it’s not even like I waste my energy being bothered that he’s the property of some chimp, thug now.

No longer feeling the need to hate him, like a passing storm in the night he’s become a person I never really knew. I mean like, when I finally realized that I was the only one who was ever married in our farce of a marriage, I finally, and quite joyfully got over him. And in a few months, when my divorce becomes final, I’ll be given the pleasure of never, ever having to think about him ever again. And that’s exactly what I’m doing, forgetting him, and who he was, except for the purpose of telling you my story. But even that is at an end as I realize that even recalling him for the reason of this tell all tail hinders me, like a thorn in the flesh. So I’ll begin to wrap this up.

I met Ivan Dudnik on a Friday, June 28th, 2019, married him that next Monday, July 1st, 2019, and he unknowingly blessed me, walking out on whatever it was that I’d foolishly thought we had, Wednesday. July 17th, 2019.

I took my life that night, leaving a final email for my lawyer, Hannah Walker, and swallowing a three month supply of sleeping pills. As fortune would have it though, my lawyer was in her office, working late that night and she sent an ambulance to my apartment, saving my life.

The night that happened, whoring Ivan Dudnik, Yves Doudnique, Ivain DudeNYC, Doobneek or whatever he chooses to call himself was in an apartment with a guy named Harold, at 1 East 1st street, Jersey City, NJ, 07302, having copious amounts of Crystal Meth injected into his rectum. (Booty Bumping) And with no other care than the “BBC,” big black cock the guy was going to fuck him with, he let me die, if not for those who saved my life that terrible night. But what else should I have expected from him?

He never even gave us so much as a snowball's chance in Hell to get to know each other. But all along, that was his plan. He sucked every resource he could out of me, just as he’s done to anyone he’s ever known. But he’s nothing more than a filthy Russian, raised by a greedy, whoring Soviet era grandmother who taught him to lie, cheat and steal his way through life. So, what business did I ever have expecting anything other than the worst in life out of him?

But none of this matters anymore.

Doing the impossible, God Almighty healed my broken heart, teaching me to forget about Ivan Dudnik, and that’s probably the worst thing that he could face, as he loathes being forgotten. But to quote a friend, Ward, “Not my circus, not my clown” anymore. And that’s it.

But I won’t leave you empty handed.

If you want to know how this divorce turns out, you can look it up as follows:

https://myeclerk.myorangeclerk.com/Cases/search

The case number is: 2021-DR-012493-0

The petitioning party's name is Joseph Dudnik.

Only enter that info. If you enter it like that, it’ll bring up the public file.

Now, in closing, I wanna thank you for taking the time to share a portion of my pain with me, as you have done by reading my story. I wish you the best in life, that you will never have the misfortune of having to meet Ivan Dudnik, who lives in the vicinity of East 52nd street and 2nd avenue in Manhattan. If you do though, remember my story and quietly await all that he did to me to happen to you. But the better thing to do would be to run! Get away from him before he tries to ruin your life.

I’d also like to thank the wonderful detectives of the 79th Precinct of the NYPD in Brooklyn. After you figured out that it was Ivan who’d been the aggressor, in regard to the domestic violence charge, you did right by me. And I’d also like to thank the best cop in New York City, Detective Daughter, who always managed to find the time to listen to a very depressed old man. I will testify to your kindness and compassion before God, come judgment day.

And that’s about it, my new friends.

Finally, I’d like to dedicate this testimony to the memory of my beloved dog, Sally Pickles. You were the best thing to ever come into my life. I will look for you at The Rainbow Bridge.

And as for Ivan, When Judgment Day arrives, I’m more than sure I will look down from Heaven and see him crying out in agony as he roasts in the fires of hell.

But who knows? Maybe he’ll change. But I seriously doubt it. And I really don’t give a shit anymore.