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