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.
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(candle stand at www.toscano.com)

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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.
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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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