not delusional, but I AM worthless

Page Thirty-five

Mon 15 Dec 2008 Respite, Greenfield

So, so, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I conclude, based, true, on very limited but very damning evidence, that Matthew himself is probably the DECIDER. You know, like georgie bush. That Matthew decided that the best way to "protect" me (read: catch-heap-big-fish-and-be-even-heap-bigger,-cooler-undercoverman-than-ever) was to deprive me of home, loved ones, privacy, dignity, my legal right to give consent to being bait, my right to make decisions about my body, etcetera. He took control. And that was BEFORE he'd ever met me and fallen in love (sigh). Matthew himself, the man in love, may well have been holding the reins of my nine months of homelessness, and if that is his idea of love, then it's sick and twisted and of course I want nothing to do with it. He is SUCH a control freak that though he's known since late August that I don't want to talk to him and don't want to have him in my face, he KEEPS putting himself in my face. It Will Be HIS Way Or NO Way, as it has been all along. When you are loved by someone like Matthew, it's an ownership thing. He owns you. Shove it, Matt.


Update 3 Sept 2009: The day after I wrote this post, the respite people would tell me they were kicking me out the next day (the 17th). I've mixed up the days a little in other places where I've written about it, but here's the right way: they told me on the 16th that they were kicking me out on the 17th, so on the 16th I walked out the door without a word (leaving my stuff behind), and got on a bus for Boston. I stayed in Boston 23 hours, and on Dec 17th went to Northampton.

As for the things I said about Matthew in this post, I'm leaving them. I was angry, stressed-out, anxious, exhausted, and unsure about how great his role in my life before I knew him might have been. I'm still unsure, still don't have those answers, so I leave my statements as made. I certainly have no proof all this time later that he wasn't the one who made these various decisions. I asked him once in 2009 if he were the Decider, but all I got for a response was the undercover drivel.

website
(clip art photo)

latent fascism in everyone

tues 4 nov 2008 Living in a park in Turners Falls
Page Thirty-four

It's nearly 8 months that I've been waiting. Until June I waited for the Department of Mental Hell to find me a place and give back some of my animals. After July, when Matthew told me those other dark things about my life, I began waiting for my "protectors" to locate me somewhere and return some of the animals. I still wait.

If Matthew told me the truth, then I've come to see precisely how fascist and lawless our federal law "enforcers" are, and it is a great shock. What is equally shocking is to see the latent Nazi blooming in every single regular citizen in Turners Falls and Greenfield, who turn their backs on me and my animals and my homelessnes. This is shocking in the extreme. I thought there were some citizens around here who had more backbone and more conscience and more principles than that. Not for me, they don't.

As I've said before in other journals: I have been betrayed by absolutely everyone around me. My government, my "friends," my doctors and therapists, local law enforcement, my child, my fellow citizens. Such a massive and unanimous betrayal can only make you feel like the lowest creature crawling on the planet, the most worthless blob of pond scum. And as worthless as they have deemed me to be, as viciously and shamelessly as they have all treated me, just as worthless and inhuman do I deem them. I despise them all.

Update 9 Sept 2009 -- Here is the anger, the hurt, the resentment I lived in all the time, and still live in to a different degree. If this protection was truth on Matthew's part, then at least the police forces in the two towns had to know about it, if no one else. But I was swimming in a sea of uncertainty, since Matthew would never give me more details: how many people are "protecting" me; how long will it last; who knows about it in the community, etc. Who did know about it? I didn't have a clue, so everyone was a possible "knower." I'd already been made to feel inhuman and worthless by the Department of Mental Hell when they sat back and let my life be destroyed, and then for Matthew to tell me about this protection thing that was all undercover and behind my back, made me feel still more inhuman and worthless.

~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

a worm?

Page Thirty-three

fri 24 october 2008 Peskeomskut Park in turners flails

Am I someone's juicy bit dangling on a very painful hook? I'm still left to sleep outside, 55 years old and lots of chronic illnesses.

Many of the people in this town are so religious. Or at least, they are SUPERFICIALLY religious. I wonder what their god thinks of their participation in my degradation. I kid you not, not one of these people, some of whom have known me at least casually for over twenty years, will even give me a hot meal, nevermind a place to sleep. While I wait for Matthew and his germs to locate me somewhere.


Update 11 Sept 2009: I started writing in bold in all the journals last year at this time. The bold was to symbolize my anger and frustration. And I started ignoring things like capital letters because I wanted to break rules. Today I've put the capitals back in and removed the boldness. I believed the things Matthew said, so I believed in this protection, and I believed that because I was "protected" in such an underhanded way, I was bait. I am still not sure that I wasn't bait, because Matthew won't answer any questions anymore (not that he ever answered very many). As for the citizens of Turners Falls, I still bear them the same ill will. Their religiosity didn't prevent them from leaving a 55-year-old woman in a park. Even if they thought I was a loopy delusional, they knew I was harmless. No drugs, no drink, no violence. Someone could have offered me a room, or at least a couch. What would their Jesus have done?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(oak leaf jewelry at www.gaelsong.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

as ever, the hollow men

Page Thirty-two

the leaves are falling all around and into my "home" in the bandstand in Peskeomskut Park, in the holy haven of Turners Falls.

tues 21 0ct 2008 living outdoors in Turners Falls

I keep forgetting whether it's Tuesday or Wednesday -- that's how tired and worn out I am.

I've said this in other places: a man in Keene, New Hampshire, a psychiatrist, no less, told me that if federal people were protecting me while at the same time using me to catch certain fish, without my consent, that this was ILLEGAL. Is this true, or was this professional man, fully trained and licensed and all that, just getting himself some jollies over my "delusions?"

They are no longer human beings in my eyes, Matthew and his fals,as I apparently have never been one in theirs. They are the quintessential nazi soldiers following orders, no matter how cruel and abusive to the innocent those orders are. They can all rot, these purported protectors, and I have no moral qualms whatsoever about saying that. They have no qualms in my direction. Leprosy would be nice -- then they'd literally rot. But does anyone actually get that anymore in amerika? Cancer, bullets, ebola virus, whatever. They are not human, not at the level of conscience and morality. They're a plague to be eradicated. If they've used me this way, I am furious. Furious and without recourse. I've been told by any number of people that if these big-cop types mess you over, there's not a thing you can do about it. Are they right?

I hang on this hook for your pleasure,
your plans, your parasite pride

Update 26 Sept 2009: It's still true. If they used me this way, I am furious. As I think MANY people would be.

~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

protecting?

Page Thirty-one

sat 11 oct 2008 Living on the canal in Turners Falls

I've been asked to leave the laundromat (though I was behaving myself there in a perfectly civilized fashion), so now I'm camped out on the canal. People who've known me for years in this town know that I don't drink or use street drugs or commit violent acts or steal, but no one can see their "Christian" selves clear to giving me a spare room or even a couch. To wit: "Going to church doesn't make you a christian anymore than standing in a garage makes you a car" (@scrapbookallday).

It's seven months today since various people destroyed my life. To this very moment, I continue to be homeless and to live with the likelihood (in view of things that Matthew Lacoy told me) that I am some kind of bait. When I started this blog in April, Matthew hadn't yet said any of these things. I thought that the DMH sitting back and delining to help me was the only bureaucratic millstone I was carrying. It was only in late June that I figured out there was something criminal going on, and Matthew, when questioned, admitted it right on the sidewalk. From that day on, he had little bit and pieces of other ugly things to tell me.

Update 7 Oct 2009: Some days, on some journals, I could mention things like exactly where I was sleeping in the great outdoors, and other days I couldn't. I was too ashamed. And once again I'll explain why I wasn't looking for my own place to live, why I'd stopped doing that in early July. Once Matthew told me I was being protected by people from Burlington, Vermont from another set of people who wanted to do me some serious dirt, I stopped looking for a place to live. All I'd ever known about this kind of "protection" was that you couldn't choose your own place to live: THEY had to choose your location. I was still waiting for them to put me where they wanted me, and Matthew knew it. I kept telling him to get his friends to get the lead out, as I was sick of having no apartment.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

still the rabbit hole

Page Thirty


sat 4 oct 2008 Sleeping in a laundromat in Turners Falls



I've been hanging around here in the library. Always have to find places to hang. The high school just put on some kind of a parade, and the floats were all of fairy tales and children's stories -- three little pigs, cinderella, etc. Reminding me once again that I fell down Alice in Wonderland's rabbit hole late in 2006, when all kinds of official and social service type people -- who are meant to help --started lying to me. The DMH lied and disappeared everyone I love, leaving me a homeless bum. And then Matthew adds his own gruesome tidbits to the already grim story of my days. No one will say where the animals are, if dead or alive, how long this "protection" might go on, how it works, etc.

Update 9 Oct 2009: A year later, it's all the same. I never, it seems, escape Alice's rabbit-hole world of nothing being as it seems and no one telling much truth, until death. I'll say again that I fell into Alice's rabbit hole, into a world of lies and smoke and mirrors and meanness and surreal illogic in November of 2006, and I'm not out yet. Maybe I never get out.

website

the hollow men

Page Twenty-nine

wed 1 oct 2008

Last night I slept outdoors in good old Turners Falls

So it could well have been some ice-cold colleagues of Matthew's -- along with the Department of Mental Hell --ripping apart my life and my heart all along. I've known this since late June, but for a lot of reasons haven't written about it as openly as I wanted to. But now, in October, I do. I have been betrayed by what appears to be a whole host of humans belonging to several organizations, and I no longer wish to be secretive about ANY of it.

Update 17 Oct 2009: I didn't write openly about all of the things that passed between me and Matthew last year. Probably this is one thing that fed into the erroneous notion that I'm "delusional." I was trying, in some things, to protect the source of my information about all this criminal crap in my life, which led many people to believe that I didn't have a source, that I was either making it up or dreaming it up. But the words came out of HIS mouth, whoever and whatever you believe him to be, and I never dreamed up or invented a thing.

(oz folks at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis. all rights reserved.

no rights, no say

Page Twenty-eight

fri 27 june 2008 Greenfield

I don't think I've ever mentioned that according to the mob-chick, she and the landlady had a deal. I heard her say it. It was 13 months after she moved in, and she was outside my window talking to a friend in her shrill, scratchy, fish-wife voice, and they were drinking wine. Always when she was running her sociopathic mouth outside my window, I'd turn up my radio, since I had not the slightest interest in any sewage issuing from her mouth. But I didn't get to the radio fast enough, and I heard. The deal was that if the chick could make me have another nervous breakdown and go to hospital, leaving the animals free to be taken, chick could live her whole time there rent-free. Her whole time there was 17 months. A sweet pair of ruthless females, don't you think? My sisters. If I HAVE mentioned this before, please excuse the redundancy.

So... it's very possible that EVERYONE had an agenda. Mob-chick certainly had hers: to make me have a nervous breakdown. Landlady had hers, but she actually had MORE than one. The building inspector and board of health had theirs. The selectmen and the police had theirs. The DMH and CSS and sheriff's department had theirs. My OWN agenda was to be found a place to live with at least half of my family, to be present at the euthanasias of whatever ones could not be saved, to maintain my privacy and reclusiveness, and my way of life: animals, art, books, etc. Minimal contact with most humans. And I make more redundancy: my tenant, civil, client rights were all violated, as I am a powerless person on the public dole and am very weird with my PTSD and Asperger's and rare immune sysytem disorders, and I can't afford a lawyer, and the entire town of Turners Falls has always felt that a nothing like me could be treated any old way that popped into their extremely muddy and callous heads.

Voila. The destruction of one human being (though I am apparently not that in their eyes) and the 14 innocent animals whom she loved more than her own life. Voila.

Update 19 October 2009: Because this was written in June last year, I believed there were only certain people from certain organizations who had all participated, behind my back, in this eviction and the disappearance of my animals. I wouldn't find out until July (from Matthew), that, according to him, even more bureaucrats were controlling my days. Now, if he was telling the truth, I had a whole lot of different people messing with my life that I hadn't known about before, and the ones I'd known about had already done enough damage: they'd destroyed my life. Matthew and his ilk were, and are, no better than the various other cruds who thought they could do anything they wanted to me, no scruples involved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(dorothy a www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

wrongly and cruelly done

Page Twenty-seven

wed 25 june 2008 Greenfield

To reiterate: Whatever the landlady, and the Turners Falls town officials, and the police, and the sheriff's department, and many more have been doing in relation to me for the last seven months (or more) and for whatever reason, it has been wrongly and cruelly done.

Whatever they have been thinking about, they did NOT think about me. As a citizen, as a renter, as a client, I had a right to have the bylaws of the town upheld in my behalf. I had a whole series of rights to be upheld: human, civil, tenant, client. They have largely been totally ignored, totally broken.

They did not think about anything they have done to me. For the first time in my life, I don't have animals. No one to say good-bye to when I leave, hello to when I return. No one to love, and love me. No meaning and purpose in my hours. No joy. No hope. The many, many people who have deceived me, controlled my life behind my back, disappeared my animals and told lots of lies about it, and much other despicable unlawful, immoral weasling... those people still have their homes to go to, still have what's dear to them, still have meaning and purpose and whatever in their lives gives them joy. They do not have two towns worth of people tearing apart their mental and physical health, tearing apart the fabric of their lives. This has all been wrongly and cruelly done, and if it had been done to YOU, I'm pretty sure you'd be feeling similarly to the way I do.

Update 20 October 2009: All I can say, all this time later, is ditto ditto ditto. And the consequences of these people's actions and their lack of compassion and their abrogation of my rights go on and on inside me, without relief, in spite of antidepressant pills. Two days before I wrote this original post, I finally figured out that there was something criminal going on in my life. A day or two later, Matthew Lacoy confirmed that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(celtic knot at www.gaelsong.com)

immer noch dein raetsel

(tree, right-side-up, at www.signals.com)

Page Twenty-six


fri 20 june 2008 Greenfield

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More Bill.... what can I tell you today, nameless receiver of messages -- I'm tired enough that my brain is mush, anitbiotic makes it worse...

Bill on the submarine, and you came that time too. I could never have lived that way, would've gone stark raving bonkers, but he loved it. I loved the submarine too, and everything about it, but I couldn't have lasted more than a week. What about you? I didn't ask at the time. Could you have gone to sea in that thing? ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you're a glutton for more of this Bill you don't know, knock yourself out: one bill, two bill, three bill, four bill, five bill.

Update 22 Oct 2009: This post was written in a kind of private code for a certain person. I didn't explain it then, and I won't now.

When I wrote this post I was only days away from figuring out that something criminal was going on in my life, and having Matthew admit that. I was living in a rented room in Greenfield (the same one I'm living in again), and I had just dumped the Department of Mental Hell earlier in the month of June. My plan was to look for my own place without any social service "help," but in early July that plan changed when Matthew told me I was being protected by him and others from people who wanted to hurt me. All plans were suspended while I took time to absorb this information. By the time I had made a beginning at that, Matthew had told me yet another thing that squashed my plans further.

~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





a href="http://twitter.com/share" data-count="none" data-via="annegrace2" data-related="ziidjian:outre tweeting">Tweet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

murdering minutes

Page Twenty-five

mon 16 june 2008 Greenfield


~~~~~~~~ Bill bleeding his head at the landing... ~~~~~~~~~~



Another message for someone who'll continue to remain nameless. Anyone else, ignore. You wouldn't understand it anyway. But if you want to torment yourself with things you don't understand, you can follow Bill around: one, two,three,four, five.

Tick-tock. Murdering minutes away, any way I can, one endless minute at a time, every day since March 12, when my life was robbed from me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in memoriam

Page Twnety-four


tues 10 june 2008 Greenfield

homeless 14 weeks today, 3 months tomorrow...
time for a poem. it's a longy.

Number 28

On the last Memorial Day
of my life,
I sank to sleep (2 a.m.)
without you,
woke 4 a.m. amid a dream of you,
without you.
Fifty-five such days before today,
all with your breaths,
your small beating hearts,
surrounding...
until now.

On this day
that I will never see again,
I sit in a cafe --
knowing, scrying, divining
in my realest self --
that this is not my life,
my place.
My life and place
are both at home with you,
and all my love,
and all my best,
and the sad leftover dreams
I had.

But there's no longer home,
no longer you,
no longer pretty dreams or sad.
All the space of soul is black,
cold,
lonesome as a grave.

And it's grave day today:
I cannot take part.
Inside me I visit them all
in a welter of flowers and tears:
our murdered child
and his suicided father,
our young man
dead away in Mosul
on the sand,
our friend, brain-dead on the pavement
right up there,
a suicided, murdered father of my own,
and all, and all the animals
I have laid gently, morosely, forever
into soil.

I'm powerless on grave day,
powerless as ever,
and we powerless
can follow neither heart, nor dream,
nor gift without assistance,
and you,
the stolen, vanished candles
were my last assist.
It's grave day.

2.

On the last Memorial Day
of my life,
I drown in random images
of all the ones before:
dad on parade in his whites
(how many years?),
cookouts and badminton games;
grown-up us with our babies
offered to grammy, matriarch,
at tables under trees
where chicken and steak were laid,
and all our little customs,
grown always more searing
by their loss.

When all of that had gone,
there was still you.
Memorial Days my soul
weighed like granite
for the want of all that was gone,
and you felt it, my granite soul,
my hard sorrow.
I cried or raged,
I lay in a zombie heap
or paced the floor,
and knew, divined
with unshakable knowing
that you were what kept me alive
among all the shards of breakage
on all those days of graves.

I rallied --
for you.
Cooked us something special,
listened to all the war songs,
soldier songs,
sang.
Lit candles for our dead,
walked under the stars.
Grateful for each one of you
still outside the grave.

Where are you to sing to?
They've kidnapped from me
all your willing ears.
Can't sing where have all the flowers gone,
ain't gonna study war no more,
johnny I hardly knew ya,
my bugle call of peace.

My existence has been nothing
if not war.
And all those battle-years
my patient, stalwart, truthful
troops marched with me.
Marched and loved
and loved my love
through fifty years of
ambush,
through every burning scar it left,
through every pool of blood,
the crippled limping of my legs,
and swollen lungs,
and pain that left me senseless in a heap
of screaming cells.

You were the last assist.
You were the troops
for whom I strove and soldiered on.
You were the stars and candle-flames
lighting up the soulscapes
of my nights.

Cold now, and dark,
the spaces where you were.
Where are you now?
If my soul can reach
to yours,
pretend I sing,
pretend we're still together:
gonna lay down my burden
down by the riverside
down by the riverside,
gonna lay down my sword and shield
down by the riverside,
ain't gonna study war no more. --- copyright 2008 by anne nakis

Click here to the poetry page of my website.

Update 12 December 2009: When I wrote this poem last year, I did so in Bart's Cafe, on Memorial Day itself, waiting for PN to come and visit and help me get some things out of my storage. We had a very good visit that day, an authentic one; one that rang of true friendship and not just the surface kind. When I wrote this, I didn't expect to be alive for another Memorial Day without my animals, without my own life. I believed fully that I would either die of grief or kill myself. As I did in fact try a few times to kill myself in ways that others wouldn't discern as suicide, and couldn't do it, I realized more fully than ever that I cannot kill. Even when killing is the best solution. Then there was only grief. I believe that the cells follow the soul, and that if the soul is dying, the cells will do the same. So I am disappointed that I was alive for a second Memorial Day in hell, and that I'm still alive now, approaching my second Yuletide without them, without me. Me as I was before human beings took everything away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

nemo, braon, sehnen, mishi

Page Twenty-three

thurs 5 june 2008 Greenfield

anne nakis: nemo, braon, sehnen, mishi. these are my phony names on my on-line journals.

Back long ago when I repeatedly asked the DMH and the CSS for a network, a word-of-mouth network of talk-to-talk-to to help find a home for me and the animals, they couldn't bloody well be bothered. But now that they've destroyed my life, destroyed me, NOW they can get together a network. And it's good-sized. All the clients they have walking these streets who are drinking, drugging, stealing, prostituting, beating on each other, and yet there's a network for little old sober, law-abiding (mostly) me. Isn't that amazing? Isn't it nice that they can get off their lazy, moribund keesters AFTER they've sat around drinking coffee, letting my life be destroyed. They collect their pay from the taxpayers for being lazy, dull-witted, and for FAILING to do the job their paid to do: help.

Update 10 December 2009: The things I didn't know when I wrote this... Later in June I would find out. The people watching me and following me were not working for the DMH after all. In July Matthew Lacoy would tell me that they were working with HIM, and that there were very bizarre reasons for these people being in my face everywhere I went. I had thought they were DMH people because I couldn't find any OTHER reason for it. I had reported the dismal "service" of the DMH to the governor's office several times, and to Health and Human Services. I'd also said I wouldn't survive the loss of my animals for very long, as this is what I truly believed. So when I developed an unwanted entourage, I thought the DMH, with the governor's lackey breathing down their necks, were keeping this ridiculous eye on me.

I don't apologize for the anger here, as I don't apologize for it anywhere. My whole life had been taken from me by a collection of reprehensible people, and as if that weren't enough to bear, I found myself watched and followed by yet another collection of reprehensible people. If you believe that federal people are fine and upstanding in some way, you're very much mistaken.

~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

messaging

Page Twenty-two

4 june 2008 Greenfield

another message:


bill said: a la casa linga (sic)


Again, this isn't for everybody. It's for someone specific. If you want to read these cryptic messages even though you're not that someone, fire away: bill here, bill there, bill again, more bill. and more.

thirteen weeks tomorrow

Page Twenty-one

monday 2 june 2008 Greenfield



Disobligata II

inter stellas negras
alma mea remota
lacrimans
noli eam revocare

sub luna tenebra
alma mea semota
ululans
noli eam revocare

I reiterate: don't owe the neurotypicals who've generously showered meanness and hurt on me all my life a goddamned thing.

Update 3 December 2009: I don't owe any human anything, with very, very few exceptions. My soul is going to the only place it wants to go: to the past where I had my animals and I was myself, at least as much others allowed me to be, which wasn't too much. Noli eam revocare. Don't try.

~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~


all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

who cares

Page Twenty

sat 31 may 2008 Greenfield

I have to leave a message for someone here:

Bill said: Stop runnin' around like a fart in a windstorm.


Done. Rainpain, snowpain, sunpain, moonpain. Sorry folks, human beings are mostly repulsive to me. Always hoped I'd find one or two that weren't, but nullo modo. And i'm just as repulsive to them, judging by the evidence.

Update 24 November 2009: There's nothing to add but this: human beings are more repulsive than ever, after the events of the last 20 months.

I do have one person who seems to be sticking most of the time. But attempts to find a second have all failed.

Rainpain, snowpain, etc. go on without relief.
Thanksgiving is upon us, my second without my animals and my own life.
In the human arena, I'm the perpetual ugly duckling.

~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~

noli me tangere

Page Nineteen

Wed 28 May 2008 Greenfield

It's yet another anniversary, the heinousest of all. And the symmetry of it is probably diabolical. Eleven years ago today exactly, on Wed 28 May 97, the universe in its perversity threw me into what I with bitterness and rage and intentional acerbity call the Hell Years. The quantum energy field has had a great deal of assistance from vicious humans along the path of these eleven years, and now, thanks to the DMH and CSS, the hell burns hottest of all. I feel nothing but contempt for anyone who participated in doing this to me, and to my innocent animals. I don't apologize for rage, or bitterness, or contempt. After a lifetime of abuse, I've earned those dark emotions. Last year, maybe, I heard a writer discussing some famous person on the radio, but I didn't get the name of the famous person. This writer had written a biography of said person, and said of him "He started out life a very gentle person. But if you hurt a gentle person too much and too long, maybe what you get is a monster." If I am a monster now, then it was all the bullying, stupid, mean-spirited neurotypicals of my life who created me.

Tempus fugit, so let's have a poem:



Disobligata

in undis
alma mea semota
natans
noli eam revocare

sub mare
alma mea demota
ululans
noli eam revocare


here to another poem: Sehnen


If you're dark and serious and enjoy reading depressing stuff, I remind you again that you can find links to other pieces in this ugly story that is my true, actual existence at my website braonthree.wordpress.com.

I don't owe any neurotypical human being a bloody thing. I don't owe the quantum field that made me a bloody thing, not anymore.

Update 21 November 2009: A year and a half after writing this, I can say only that my feelings are still the same. Yes, I take an anti-depressant now, and an anti-anxiety, but my feelings remain the same.
And in May of last year I didn't yet know about the criminal angle that had emerged in my life. Matthew Lacoy hadn't yet told me about all that. I found what he said believable, and still do, until someone can unequivocally prove to me that he was lying, playing a hoax. And if what he said was true, then I can add the FBI to the list of individuals and organizations that treated me as if I were less than human.

the phony police chief

Page Eighteen

21 May 2008 Greenfield

Well, about an hour and a half ago I was re-hurt by another character in the saga of destroying me. This time it was the phony police chief. On the morning of March 12, the morning that I had to sign my animals away under extreme emotional and physical duress (the worst I've ever experienced), there was an animal control officer there, and another man that the animal control officer kept calling "chief". He even said to me, "we gotta settle this about the animals before the CHIEF chews my ass." Well, right then the "chief" came over to me and started the ass-chewing on both of us. I knew instantly that this man wasn't the police chief of Turners Falls, because I know who he is. I also knew instantly that I KNEW this man, but I was so tired and physically ill and traumatized that it took me probably 45 minutes to remember who he is. He's a deputy with a certain division of the local sheriff's department, and while I was being harassed by the psycho-chick and illegally evicted by the psycho-landlady, he was supposed to help me. These deputies are in the division called Triad. Their job is to visit elderly and disabled people in their territory to see if they have any issues they'd like help with. The first time he visited me he was full of tough talk about the things he was going to get done about the crime-chick who was harassing me. The second time he came, he just shrugged and said he could do nothing about the crime-chick or the eviction.

This I knew was bullshit. I had personally known people in the past who had been helped a great deal by Triad deputies in matters of getting both evictions and any kind of harassment stopped. But not for me. All of a sudden, after all his tough talk, there was nothing he could do.

But on that worst day of my life on March 12, there he was yelling at me, telling me lies about myself that came right out of the mouth of Cry Baby at the CSS. So these agencies that could never do much at all - almost nothing - to stop the harassment, to deal with the landlady, to find me a home where I could save as many animals as possible, to let me be present at the deaths of whatever animals could NOT be saved; these agencies (DMH,CSS, Sheriff) that could barely be bothered to help save my life, could all participate in this grand play-acting on that day (and a whole lot of other play-acting over the last eight months). THAT they had the mental resources to do: lie and play-act and let everything that was dear to me be destroyed. But they just couldn't bestir themselves ahead of time to try to save us.

I knew this deputy and the animal control officer were lying and play-acting. One reason I figured this out was that they kept laughing. This guy would holler at me, then turn his back, bend over, and have a laughing fit. Also, they delivered their lines as stiffly and phonily as bad actors in a bad play. I knew they were acting, but what I didn't know was why.

So this actor drives right up to where I'm standing, about 8:15 this morning. I'm standing on the steps of the house where I rent a room, smoking. He drives right up and starts his mouth at me. Only this time he's playing the sweet act. I looked at his face only once or twice for a nano-second, because looking at ANY of the characters in my destruction gives me chest pains and stomach pains. I said only a very few words to the crap he was spouting, then held up my hands in a gesture for him to go away and leave me alone. The whole lot of them took part in the destruction of everything that kept me going through 11 abysmal years. GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

Update 20 November 2009: That was the last time this man and I ever spoke (May 21 last year). This sheriff's deputy who was supposed to give me regular security visits while the psycho-chick was harassing me, and didn't. Who was supposed to get something done about the harassment, and didn't. Who then suddenly appeared playing a police chief on the day my animals were taken away (that he could manage). We never spoke again. He died last year, September 7I think, of stomach cancer. That's one whose face I'll never have to be triggered by again, but only one. The rest are all alive and kicking. If all of this sounds harsh, it is. What this dead man and a whole lot of others did to me, and my innocent animals was harsh, and traumatic, and irrevocable.

Recently my current therapist told me that the DMH did start out with some kind of a plan to get me a place and re-unite me with at least some of my animals. A plan that fell through, but he wouldn't tell me why. So this play-acting that went on on March 12 must have had something to do with this plan, and with keeping it secret from me. Why did the plan to do something decent for me and my animals, to provide the service I asked for from the DMH in the FIRST place, have to be kept secret from me? Why all the lying and acting that had gone on for months? Why all these so-called adults behaving like sneaky grammar school kids playing a prank on someone they didn't much like? No one at the DMH or ServiceNet will tell me.

~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

part of the book Spite and Malice

poem sixteen

Page Seventeen

Saturday 17 May 2008 Greenfield

On April 24 I met a woman who turned out to belong to a NEW pack of mental health workers (the Recovery Learning Community), and they say they're going to help me find an apartment and find out how many of my animals are still alive, and where they are. But they are not as talented in the field of acting as they perhaps think they are, and there's a variety of facial expressions (badly acted), over-empahsized words, etc., that ring very false with me, very off-kilter. And as it turns out, their funding comes from the DMH, the walrus that destroyed me and destroyed my life. Will anything come of their promises to help?

Last Sunday was the first Mother's Day of my entire life without animals. An exercise in pain, that day, but then again they all are now. Tomorrow's another special Sunday. Exactly 33 years ago, on Sun 18 May 1975, I graduated with my first college degree. I was 22, the future was before me. I did not train for a career while at college, I only studied what I liked, so on that day when they put that degree into my hand, I had no idea what the future would BE, but I did believe that there would be good in it. I did believe I would have a husband and a house and children like everybody else I knew. I also believed that marriage might end in divorce, like so many, but I at least believed it would happen. At 22 I knew that I was odd, that I was in some puzzling way different from other people, but I didn't know yet how vast my difference was, and that IT, together with my raging immune system, together with the cruelty of the neurotypicals around me, would lead to 33 years of failure and poverty and trauma and loss. I didn't know on that day that I should have taken that new degree, run across the esplanade, and drowned myself in the Charles River right then and there. I didn't know that all that lay before me was failure, and poverty, and worst of all, the cruelty of other people. How COULD I know such a thing on such a promising day....


This failure mommy marches on in bumhood and soul agony. Nearly 11 weeks homeless, and to my knowledge, the Department of Mental Health and the Community Support Services in Greenfield, Massachusetts have not done ONE thing to find me a place to live. Around the end of March Shirley Temple made some mutterings about some things she MIGHT do, but as far as I know they were never done. And they think that no one dies of grief....

The other day I saw the sociopathic landlady for the first time since sheriff day on March 11. Still fat. Still bleaching the hair. A professional person in the Turners-Greefield community who has everyone convinced (as she once had me convinced) of her sweetness and sainthood. But there is no law she won't break to get her way, and there is no unethical or immoral thing she won't do to get her way. And there's no amount of money she won't spend to get her way....

We should have a poem. Time isn't as reckless as it used to be...

Number 16

I dream.
Sometimes of you, the stolen,
I dream.
Sometimes I dream of the thieves.
Dream only in the night now,
only in tossing sleep.
Daydreams are all away,
vanished,
pilfered,
like you.

Remember? Do you recall
how many were the daydreams
I could make?
Do you recall
how very good I was
at dreaming?
Absent now,
the pages torn.
Like you.



to the poetry page of my website.

Update 18 Nov 2009: The Recovery Learning Community did not help me, anymore than the DMH had. The RLC had said they were going to locate my animals and stop anymore killings, and they were going to help me find a place to live with whatever animals were left. They did nothing. Once again I was led around by a string and then dropped like a hot potato by a social service agency. To see any of these people on the street triggers me, if you know how that word is used in relation to Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. To see Matthew triggers me, and the psychotic, criminal landlady, and the mafia-connected tenant. Trigger, trigger, trigger, every time I walk out my door.

no money, no rights

Page Sixteen

Wednesday 7 May 2008 Greenfield

So it seems that in the eyes of the DMH I did not have the right to have more than 2 animals, or the right to choose to be reclusive, or the right to have a lot of personal belongings, or the right to say that I did not want to live in public housing. I had at least two strikes against me when it came to having the right to decide these things for myself. One strike, I'm poor. Coudln't by my own house and do what I damned well pleased. Two, I have the dreaded mental illness label. Depression, anxiety. We're not talking what they call Axis 2 stuff: the things like multiple personality and other things that move into the bizarre. We're talking Axis 1. It isn't bad enough that society at large tends to view mental illness with a gimlet eye, but we have to have the Department of MENTAL Health discriminating against us too, denying us both our human rights and our rights as their clients to expect that they will be helpful to us rather than destructive. I go to them with PTSD and a long history of repeated trauma in my life, and they deliver unto me the worst trauma ever, the queen of pain and grief.

And I myself, having been raised in the society that views psychological issues this way, ALSO have certain conditions that I look at with a VERY gimlet eye. Sociopathy, for instance. One that has appeared in more than one person in my life, and these people have inflicted serious trauma. If I've mentioned it before, well, I'll do it again. There's a decent book - though not as extensive as I'd like it - about sociopathy written by a psychiatrist. Her name is Martha Stout, and her book is The Sociopath Next Door.

Lines from poem #8, which I think I already put into this journal whole:

My name is enfiled by you,
and the day I was born.
(Who will tell you the day I die?)

Update 16 Nov 2009: I've said in another on-line journal that a short while back my current therapist told me there had indeed been a plan by the DMH to get me an apartment and let me have at least 2 of my animals back (2 of 14), but this plan fell through. He said he didn't yet know what the plan had been or why it had fallen through. I wonder if he knows now -- I'll have to ask him. My anger at the DMH, this juggernaut of a state-wide social service agency, is enormous. And almost every DMH employee I ever spoke to -- in Greenfield or Boston or Northampton -- seemed to have an intellect and sensitivity that would qualify them to do bricklaying or janitorial work. The state of Massachusetts doesn't hire the cream of the crop (they hire the dregs, largely) because the cream do not want to work for state pay. So when you go to the state, what you get is the bottom of the barrel.

~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my sisters: right

Page Fifteen

Tuesday 6 May 2008 Greenfield

Eight weeks today since the sheriff's guy came.

It was a gaggle of women who did this to us. Landlady, psycho-tenant, case manager, goon at CSS: a gaggle of women. Back in the 70's, in the heydey of our country's most recent women's movement, we were all encouraged to think of other women as our sisters, and some part of me has always held to that. You can have whatever you can have with men, but we women are sisters. It's only in the last 4 or 5 years that I've begun to realize how truly vicious most women are, given the right stimulus. And they are very often jealous, self-centered, phony, whiney, and aggressive.

My only true sisters were my female animals: Brainse the dog, Lizzie and Canajoharie the birds, and the female cats: Shiloh, Judah, Chailin, Chani. Shiloh, I'm told, was executed. Judah is in a foster home "somewhere," but if I don't find a home where I can have her by May 14, she is maybe executed too. And Chani and Chailin, last I was told, were hiding out in a priest's garage in Turners Falls, and I don't know what the hell became of them. These were my only sisters, and one of the last dreams I had left in life was to see each of my ageing animals to their natural deaths. DMH and CSS shattered that one.

Women, you are not my sisters. You are childish and insufferable and sneaky. My true sisters have been stolen, and all of them most likely killed...


Update 13 November 2009: The same, the same. The way I feel about women in general and the women who destroyed us in particular is the same. The way I feel about the female animals who were stolen from me is the same. And it remains true that all this time later, no one has told me what became of any of my animals except the three who were slaughtered at the animal "shelter." The posts I made in 2008 were all made in a state of very high anxiety, and anger, and grief, and confusion. The confusion was not endemic to me: it was caused by all the lies and half-truths people had told me, and by the things Matthew Lacoy had told me about my life.

I used my on-line journals last year to just dump whatever was bothering me the most at the moment, so that I could carry on with each insufferable day. This year I've been spending a lot of time providing details and contexts that I did not provide last year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

imagine

Page Fourteen

Monday 5 May 2008... Turners Fools


I'm a person who has to apply artsy and otherwise imaginative things to all of life: music, colors, images, etc. To ensoul the ordinary, to turn the ordinary into a little magic, to let my imaination have its fun.

For instance, fairies. In my own life that is now gone, I was wild about fairies, but only pretty ones. All my fairies had to be pretty. And I chose to envision all fairies as kind and benevolent, even though this is by no means the case in Celtic myth and folklore.

And I chose to see all pretty fairies as symbols of all the good things life can have. And so on. Ensouling everyday life. Adding a little magic to the mundane. This is a very different thing from delusions, please note, and from the popular psychiatric disorder that is commonly called "magical thinking." This is a conscious choice to PRETEND, because normal pretending is safe, and sane, and fun, and good for the soul. One book in which you could read more on this subject is The Re-enchantment of Everyday Life, by Thomas Moore (a psychologist, by the way).

I did this in my conversations with my animals too. In the years that my cats and I walked along the canal in Turners Fools (where I'm visiting today and typing these words; where my family and my life were demolished), I named various spots along the canal with our own names that no one else knew: the sunset hill, Zoe's lookout, Shiloh's lookout, etc. I did it again with my dogs in the woods at the address we were just thrown out of. The fairy well, the hill to the morning, the little hemlock, the little singing stream, and more. My dogs, Brainse and Mishi, learned these names for things very quickly, and loved for me to say the name of each place when we reached it. Brainse liked to take it one step further. She would stop at each place, often getting there ahead of me, and she would not walk further until I said the name. Sometimes I'd be lost in my thoughts and I'd forget to say the name. Mishi and I would keep on walking a few feet, and then I'd notice that Brainse wasn't with us. I'd turn around, and there she'd be, sitting or standing at a certain spot that was special to us, looking at me as if to say "You didn't say the name, Mom." Then I'd apologize and say the name, and she'd smile and wag her tail and trot forward to meet me. Putting a little magic into everyday things. It's all gone. And the DMH and the CSS sat back on the cheeks of their brains and let it all be taken from me.

Update 12 November 2009: I've been thinking a great deal lately about those dog walks in the woods and all the things we named there, and the sweetness of our time together there. But I cannot yet face returning to that woods.

I have, though, returned to the canal and the river in Turners Falls, where we also walked and named things and had sweet times. The pain of the loss of those times is greater than ever. The pain and rage that still, after 20 months, no "christian" souls will tell me what happend to my animals, is enormous.

~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

part of the book Stolen Stars

psychotic spawn from hades

Page Thirteen

Monday 5 May 2008 Greenfield

I talked about this before, on an older blog that I'm getting rid of. The destruction of me and my animals began on a certain day, with a certain person. Lots of other characters joined in the moral farce before it was over, but it all began with this one sociopath. And how could I know that then, on that one single day, with this one single psycho-bitch, that everything that mattered to me and kept me going in life would be destroyed.

It's Saturday the 15th of July 2006, when she appears on the scene. I'm out in the front yard gardening and this bleached chick in a white convertible drives by and waves at me as if I'm her long-lost best friend. I've never seen her before. A short while later I'm inside my kitchen, and psycho-woman drives up to my kitchen door and wants to know about the empty apartment. And there it all begins.

This is the acoholic, drug-using, drug-selling, delusional vermin who will torment me for over 16 months, in a great variety of ways, including never letting me sleep. She will (or so she later said) make a deal with the landlady to drive me to another nervous breakdown (the landlady doesn't like me and wants me out), and in exchange she lives in the house rent-free. This piece of crap joins together with another one, the landlady, in loathing me. They are both sociopaths, conscienceless with absolutely no sense of right and wrong. They form a team, and it begins.

read more about the mafia chick.

Update 14 August 2009: That's exactly how it began. Nothing I've said about it has been lied or imagined. I'm running out of computer time, but if I weren't I'd delineate for you some of the ingenious and relentless ways this bleached chick came up with to harass me and make me physically ill. Maybe another time. And she is not in jail. Harming me was nothing special to the law, but she did other things that were illegal, but Matthew and his pals have never cared about getting her into jail. It's some of the people she's connected to that they want.

part of the book Spite and Malice.

tuesday again

Page Twelve

Sat 3 May 2008 Greenfield

No, it's not Tuesday. But I'm reflecting on something I wrote on Tuesday 22 April, when it was six weeks that I was homeless and six weeks since my life had been destroyed. I was talking about all the "forgive, forgive," literature and talk there is in our society today. Believe me, I've read it all and heard it all. But if you're looking for post-modern happy talk, you won't get that here, and maybe you shouldn't be reading this. Because I despise completely anyone and everyone who had anything to do with destroying my life and taking the ones I love away from me. And since the DMH has absolutely bathed me in lies and fairy stories, I will probably never know who all the participants in this trauma were.

Update 13 August 2009: These words, opinions and feelings are as true and as with me today as they were when I wrote this post more than a year ago. I'm in Turners today, visiting for the last couple of days the anniversary - 17 months - of the stealing of my life. The Tuesday trauma. You still will not get any post-modern, quasi-eastern, happy forgive talk from me. I forgive no one who had anything to do with the stealing of my life.

~~~~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

rainpain, snowpain

Page Eleven

Friday 2 May 2008 Greenfield

No, it doesn't snow anymore now, but it did off and on during the first week I was homeless in the middle of March. Everything, for my whole life, was shared with my animals. Rain, snowflakes, snowballs, icicles, sunrises, sunsets, lunar eclipses: everything. Now nature itself is an enemy all around me, sending knives into my heart with every move it makes because none of nature's goings-on are shared with my companions anymore. I walked in nature with cats, with dogs, with rabbits, with a possum. I talked to them about everything: the names of the plants and trees, the names of stars and planets, if I knew them. I always went out to have moonshadows with my dogs. If there was going to be a good moon at 3am, I'd often set a mental alarm, or an actual one, to wake up and go out and have the shadows with the dogs.

What did the DMH allow to be ripped away from me? Just a bunch of "pets"?

Update 12 August 2009: What did the DMH allow to be ripped away from me? Everything that mattered to me the most. Everything that made my life my life. I already had chronic depression and anxiety, and I already had post-traumatic stress. How much worse is all that now, now that the DMH "helped" me in 2007? Click here to the DMH page of my website.

slainte

Page Ten

Friday 2 May 2008, Greenfield

So the DMH thought it was a fine idea to leave a 55-year-old woman with several psychological conditions and several physical illnesses homeless. Their plan for me was a homeless shelter. A person who is ill, and afraid of people, and very reclusive, and the DMH wisdom was that I should be thrown into a group. And what kind of a group? Well, I'm sure that not all of the people in the shelter are the way I'm about to describe, but many of them are. I know. I hang out in some of the same places they do. They ask me for money and cigarettes on the streets. I hear their stories of the kids being taken away, DUI's, drug rehab over and over again, arrests, not paying rent. I am afraid of people who live very average lives, so how much more afraid am I of people who don't? And I haven't lived my life in the ways these other shelter people have, and I haven't acted out my unhappiness by getting arrested or not paying rent or whatever. I've led a very different kind of life.

So the DMH "assisted" me (and I was told by two therapists that I could get "assistance" from the DMH) in these ways: They did not find me a place to live with even half of my animals. They left me, the animals, and lots of belongings for the sheriff. They let be torn away from me my whole identity and personal space and my family (the animals), and whatever measure of auotonomy and personal choice I had in my life, which wasn't a whole lot.

Let's raise a glass of non-alcoholic beverage to the wisdom, empathy and "assistance" of the Greenfield MA Department of Mental Hell. Slainte.

I get more tired every day from leading this rootless street existence that isn't my life. I get more sad and more depressed every day from the loss of the ones I love. Slainte.

Update 7 Aug 2009: All true. I've written more about these state employees, and their conduct of my case, and the complaints I made against them (to no avail) on updates on my other journals, all of which are part of my website.

When I originally wrote this post, I hadn't yet stayed in any shelter. Later that would indeed happen, and I would learn exactly what sorts of people there are in the shelters, as I stayed in three different ones.

~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

here in the cavern

Page Nine

Friday 2 May 2008 Greenfield

So what's the cavern? The cavern is where this particular person with Asperger's lives. A song I wrote back 10 or 12 years ago has a verse:

I cannot gain a candle,
much less a candle throng,
here in this lightless, flameless cavern
in which I wander,
perhaps belong. .....

Anyway, the sense of isolation, the lifelong sensation that I wasn't like other people in some mysterious, hugely important way, has been with me all my life, and always growing stronger.

Everything I've ever written about isolation or alienation has been talking about my experience with humans. In the animal realm, I have never been isolated and alone and shut out until now, until the loss of them, until the DMH's exercise in control.

Now, without the animals, the cavern I've always lived in is deeper, darker and more dangerous than ever before. These cauliflowers at the DMH, who are supposed to be helping people with psychological problems, appear to understand nothing about serious depression, or about Asperger's syndrome, or even about the effects on a person of long-term, severe physical pain caused by my over-zealous immune system. Maybe my metaphor is unfair to cauliflowers.

So where are the words, muse, the right words to describe the extent of the depression, the extent of the pain, the extent of the loneliness? I can't find them. But I do know this: Nobody belongs in this kind of agony, and the DMH increased my hurts and traumas a hundredfold.

Update 5 August 2009: I think this post describes as well as I can the devastation of losing all the animals, the bitter resentment of having gone to a huge social service agency for help and being for the most part ignored. And then later, after Matthew's news about protection and all that, I developed a great belief that they would locate me somewhere, because I truly believed that's what they always do for people in protection. And I had much more faith in them to give me back some of my animals than I had had in the DMH. All down the shoot: belief, hope, the reunion with even one or two of my dear, dear friends.

~~~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~

(photo from greeting card)

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless stated otherwise. all rights reserved.

being unimportant

Page Eight

Wed 30 April 2008 Greenfield

I wonder, over and over again, why saving my way of life for me was not at least a little important to the putzes at the DMH. I'm not a likeable person, I've known that for years, I understand that. But they are being paid by Massachusetts taxpayers -- and we poor folk pay cigarette taxes, sales taxes, gas taxes, etc. -- to assist the mentally ill, to help them preserve and improve their mental health, and yet saving the life of Anne Nakis, an unlikeable, reclusive, animal-loving, people-hating weirdo, did not matter. I told them for a year that losing the animals would be a trauma I couldn't survive. Someone else who's known me for twenty years told them so too, in a letter. They even had me "evaluated" over the phone a couple of times by their so-called crisis people, who tried to convince me that of course I could survive. These penis-breaths who never met me, knew nothing about my 55 years and the traumas and the immune system crap and my life-long dependency on bonds with animals, were trying to tell me how my soul is made, what it can withstand and what it can't. IT'S ALL ABOUT CONTROL, ABOUT ASSERTING YOUR WILL OVER THE CLIENT'S. Saving my animals, and therefore my life, didn't matter. Only asserting their will. This word thisgoes to the DMH page of my website.

Let's raise our glasses of non-alcoholic beverages and drink a toast to arrogance, and a toast to lightning bolts sent by Zeus to zap those who practice hubris. Skol.

Update 29 July 2009: I feel the same way, all this time after first writing this post. I wasn't taken seriously by the very social worker types who are supposed to take seriously the mental health needs of their clients. I didn't matter. They were arrogant enough to suppose after their relatively brief exposure to me that they knew how my psyche works better than I do. They knew my self better than I do. Zeus has thus far sent no lightning bolts to damage these people whose arrogance has so badly damaged me, and I don't imagine that he will. And I would repeat yet again: if you or someone you care about are considering getting mixed up with the Mass Dept. of Mental Health, please don't. Please find other ways.

Related Posts: Threads ~~ Little Kids ~~ Weaving ~~ Crassy ~~ Ugly Story ~~ Social Non-service ~~ Moribund

number fourteen

Page Seven

still Mon 28 April, 2008 Greenfield

Another poem from the little, growing book...

Number 14

Bring light here,
bring here the flame.
Those words from my hand,
once upon a time,
when you were young.
Bring light here,
said my hand,
while the darkness all around us
tumored larger every passing year.
Bring here the flame,
I said,
while you grew up
and I grew more afraid.
The more the tumor grew
on people's ignorance and bile,
the more I lit the flames,
clung tighter and tenacious
to our love;
the more I dragged out
all the light I knew.

And still
the tumor swallowed us.

the poetry page of my website.

Update 22 July 2009, Turners: That tumor. It was made, in the end, of mental instability, hatred, lies, and maybe even some jealousy. It was made of money and power. All congealed in two very disturbed people, the landlady and the mafia-connected dealer that moved into the building. And I would not give very many cents for the mental stability or intelligence or compassion of my former case managers at the DMH. Not that I don't have my issues too. I guess the one that annoyed landlady the most was that I withdrew from her more and more all the time. This is what I do when a person is behaving in a way that I don't understand and don't know how to handle. Nevermind, though, that she withdrew from me first. That didn't count in her mind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(candle stand at www.toscano.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

failure mommy

Page Six

monday 28 april 2008 greenfield

Failure mommy. That's my greeting banner on my cell phone. Those are the words I see every time I open it, so I won't forget. A mommy who can't protect her children is a failure. It's a stupid mommy who trusts the wrong people. It's an incompetent mommy who can't buy a house in which to protect her children and her life. A stupid, incompetent failure. Whatever else I am, good or bad, I am a failure.

And human beings, in their infinite meanness, never cease to remind me (for many years now) that I am a failure. "You're so gifted, so educated, you have so many talents...", and then they go on in smarmy, roundabout words (never direct) to say: Why are you a poor slob on disability with no house and no car and no anything? Why do you need to borrow $20? Why do you need a ride? Why do you need a cheap rent? Why haven't you made anything of yourself with all your brains, for christ's sake?

So... ask my raging immune system that question. Ask it why it made me too sick and too tired to keep working. Ask the people who never hired me for the better-paying jobs with good benefits when I did work, why they didn't want me (I'm brilliant but weird; I don't shmooze or fit in). Ask my human family why they can't look after me some, the way a lot of other families do for their disabled members. Don't ask me, humanity, why I never made anything of myself. I tried. And every time one thing didn't work out, I retreated into my wounds for a while and then got up and tried something else. I don't personally know anyone who tried as many times and as many ways not to be a failure as I did. Shot down every time.

So... here we are in amerika, where if you don't have at least a certain societally-determined amount of money and a house and car of your own, you probably can't protect your right to choose your own lifestyle, and you probably can't protect what's dearest to you. I certainly couldn't.

Update 18 July 2009: The feelings are still the same. I failed at everything you need to do right in order to protect yourself from the psychological garbage of other people. I failed in money, and so could not buy my own home and live my own way. I failed to marry and get my own home that way. I failed in being able to blend in smoothly and participate lightly in all the social flimsiness that people practice. I failed not to be autistic. I failed the fourteen animals I love as big as the sea.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

read... Streams four... All my stars...

~~~~~~~ website outline ~~~~~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

hell is a real place

Page Five

saturday 26 april 2008 greenfield

in his play no exit, jean-paul sartre says that hell is other people. for me at least, people have always been more hell than heaven. I'm nervous, frightened and irritated around people, even people I like. I think this is part of the asperger's-autism thing to some degree, because I was always like this, even before there were repeated traumas and more traumas in my life. PTSD on top of asperger's makes for much-increased anxiety, even fear, around people. nature, animals and the arts were always the places where I wasn't bored, or irritable, or afraid.

but there's another thing that hell is, too. when your whole life and identity are ripped away from you. your private space, your belongings, and the ones you love. and let us not forget that I have the department of mental health here in greenfield to thank for this hell I live in: the people who were supposed to care, and to help.

I've always been a questioner. it's the kind of brain I have, I guess, always wanting to know why and wanting to figure things out. this is another quirk I've taken a lot of criticism about. nonetheless, I have always wanted to know why. if people find me so strange and hard to be around, why don't they just leave me alone and let me be weird? why do they so often take a sadistic pleasure in actively hurting me?

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read... Neverending solitaire... Mishibone...

~~~ website outline ~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

mental devastation

Page Four

friday 25 april 2008 greenfield

I don't know how to describe things inside me. No words seem to match the emotions. And who would possibly identify with me, even if I had the right words? Who feels the complete bonding with animals that I feel? Anybody? Who feels as fearful and bored and uncomfortable in the presence of humans as I do? Anybody? Who's been screwed in every possible way by humans, as I have? Anybody? Tell me if you know.

Number 15

Explosions.
No one hears them,
nor imagines they exist.

Volcanoes erupt in souls
and go, for the most part,
unremarked.

Complexities
inside us,
seismic events
and black holes,
the kaleidoscope parade
of chips that make a soul
are left to the buffoons
who set up files,
proffer pills,
misdefine you,
and flee.
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poetry page of my website


Update 16 July 2009, Turners Fails: After the DMH and CSS sat back and let my life be destroyed, I still am very bitter about social service agencies, and don't trust them (what reason would I have to ever trust one again?). I'm working with a new one now, but am very wary. And the grief that was in spurts and was distracted by all the anxiety caused by the things Matthew Lacoy told me, is now in its full spate. Where it should have been last year. Living is emptier than it's ever been. --- Greetings to AtomicPunk.
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read... Spite and malice... Fourth february...

~~~~~~~~~ website outline ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

meandering

Page Three

thurs 24 april 2008 greenfield

Meandering through the streets of two towns is mostly how I spend a good part of each day now, having no life that is at all recognizable as my own. As of eight days ago, I live in a rented bedroom. No apartment, nothing of the life of a grown-up. Still the homeless bum that the DMH made me. Still waiting for them to come up with some kind of apartment and give back at least some of my animals from wherever they've hidden them. My heart meanders among grief, rage, depression. My eyes meander over human faces and see how bland and uninteresting they are compared to the expressions on the faces of animals. So it has always been, as far back as I can remember. I have Asperger's Syndrome. Animal faces have always been fascinating to me, and beautiful. Whereas the human face has always been partly frightening, partly boring, partly too duplicitous.

And on computers I meander among my blogs and wonder if anyone in the readership I have can understand -- even a little -- how I feel.



Update 30 June 09, Greenfield: My eyes were also meandering over certain human faces (Matthew's included) that were popping up in MY face way too often, much more often than the laws of chance would allow. Some of them pretending to be insane (including Matthew), but I could look in their eyes and see that there was no insanity there. They were playacting: but why?
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read... Kaikenlainen... Extemporaneana...

~~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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(stone spiral at www.gaelsong.com)
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

the green-eyed monster

Page Two
website

wednesday 23 april 2008 greenfield

Do you ever envy certain other people so powerfully that you could lie down and cry? Envy is one of those dark, unattractive emotions we're not supposed to admit to. I think it was Shakespeare who first called it the green-eyed monster, but I could be mistaken. Or perhaps he was referring to jealousy. Anyway, I envy, and for better or worse I admit it. I envy people who've had relatively easy lives, who've grown up without being badly traumatized by their families, whose paths in life have been mostly downhill and paved with relatively good luck most of the time. My life, and those of others too, has been so much goddamned hardship, so fraught with struggle and failure and trauma of all kinds, that I envy the easy people so hard my stomach hurts. And now, now that the agencies that were supposed to help me, that were being paid to at least PRETEND that they cared about me, have delivered me the worst trauma of my life, the envy I feel for the "easy" people all around me makes me want to fall down another rabbit hole -- one that's dark forever, with no humans in it, and from which I never come out.

Wed 21 Jan 2009, Northampton --- now I am ten months and ten days still homeless, still not a human being. And now there is more envy than ever in my life, for now I envy every single amerikan who has not been subsumed as property by the federal law kids (as Matthew has said), who has not had their whole life and many of their rights taken from them by these particular sociopaths. Undercover protection, which this Matthew Lacoy person told me I have and about which no one has convinced me that he's lying, is as fascist as anything nazis dreamed up. Now I envy every single amerikan who walks down the street without this protection in their lives. How many people are there in the country like me? People who are absolutely innocent, but have ended up in trouble with big criminal-types and treated like bait by the feds?. How many of us ARE there? Six? Ten? Fewer than that?

Update 25 June 2009, Greenfield: As I've said in other places, and will continue to say, Matthew never told me how many people were protecting me, how many people were around who wanted to hurt me; how long the protection would be needed and how it worked. And so with only a modicum of information, in my tension and strain I'm sure I pulled many more people and events into this "protection" situaion than truly belonged there, and I daresay that in my position you might well have made that exact same mistake. And I still believe strongly in the possibility that I was used as bait for some amount of time, particularly since Matthew, when I would bring that up, never once disputed it.
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read... Spite and malice... Mishibone...

~~~~ website ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

mentalhell... and ten months later

website braonthree.wordpress.com

Page One

saturday 19 april 2008 greenfield

Living in mentalhell, falling down the rabbit hole. Life destroyed by the Department of Mental Health, and a couple of others. No more songs, no more birds, no more dogs and cats. Oddballs are forbidden by the Department of Mental Mind-Police.

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That was what I wrote the day I began this blog in April of 2008. Now it's much later (Feb 2010), and much more has happened. In July of 2008 a man told me people wanted to harm me and that I was being protected by federal types from Burlington, Vermont (where I've been told there's a federal branch office). He also told me my own grandfather had been in organized crime. The stress, anxiety and depression that this information caused was added on top of the damage the Department of Mental Health had already done by sitting back and letting my whole way of life be taken from me. Writing about these things -- the people, the events, the emotions -- is the only way I've been able get through each arduous day of the last twenty-three months.

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read... Sehnen... Spite and malice

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless stated otherwise. all rights reserved.
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