judahblog

Page Thirty, website outline

A blog I had on another website for a while in 2008 and 2009. I was living outdoors at the time that I wrote a lot of it, but eventually abandoned it. never did too much with it. I’m moving what I did write in the Judahblog here to WordPress.

I used this blog as a place to take a break, to stop telling the story of what had been done to my life by other people in as much chronological order as I could manage. I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to write;  I didn’t have a plan. I just sat at the keyboard thinking: what do I feel like writing?, and then I waited to see what would result. The results very often surprised me, because things came out that I hadn’t realized were down there in the subconscious niggling at me.

the link.

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 read…   Kaikenlainen    Don’t ask…..

 

 

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wandering around the blogs

Page Twenty-eight, website outline

                                                                                           to a pig

        to bill                  to a poem

                   to opals                                        to romance

to casting souls                                                                                                                  

to a blackworld

to the brightest stars                                      to blue Mishi                                www.braonwandering.wordpress.com

                                     to a ruby                                 to treasures

                                                                    

                                                                                                         to a child

 to a green moon

(these resin fairies are marketed by www.toscano.com.  I don’t get any kickbacks from these people; it’s simply that theirs was one of the catalogs in which I used to daydream back in my own life. I’d circle all the things I’d like to buy if I could ever get myself and my animals to a place of peace and relative safety. I did buy my lapharp from their catalog, but that was as far as I got before disaster landed. I’ll be using a great many of those daydream items in the graphics on this website, because those items and those dreams were one more mosaic piece of the life I shared with my animals.)

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freedom

Page Eighteen, website outline

Living in a country that touts and flouts how free we are. But there are all kinds of freedoms, and there’s one extremely important one I have never, in fifty-seven years, been granted by my fellow humans: the freedom to be myself without constant punishment for being that self. Punishment takes many forms, from verbal insult all the way up to various forms of attack. Just for being me I’ve had an on-going stream of this stuff. Others have too. Especially others with Asperger’s.

Harping, like the chanting of Shakespeare’s three witches, all my life, on many themes that are apparently unbearable aspects of Anne Nakis’ selfhood:  too many animals  —  you don’t smile enough — you’re too negative — you’re not really an  atheist; everyone believes in god — you’re antisocial (by this they mean withdrawn, not sociopathic) — you don’t try to fit in…  and more. Almost everything about me, about who I am, is apparently either so annoying or so repugnant or so aberrant that anyone who wishes to throws in their two cents’ worth, and believes they have the right to do so. They have the right to mock, nag, criticize, punish. But I don’t have the freedom to be myself and be left alone about it. If you don’t like me, if I’m not your cup of tea, then just leave me the hell alone. Why do you have to hurt in some way?

All of this has taught me that it’s money in this country that buys you freedom to be yourself. I hate for that to be true, because I hate people making a god out of money. But the fact remains that if I’d been able to earn the money to buy my own home, no landlord and no other tenant could have bullied me the way they have repeatedly done for being myself, for being the oddball, weird, idiosynratic, creature that I am. No relatives and friends could have had much chance to do so, because I wouldn’t have needed them for any kind of practical help. I could have hung up the phone or slammed the door.                                    

To my mind, it is an ugly commentary on human nature to have to say in all truth that I have been alive for more than five decades, and have been allowed by only one person in one relationship, the freedom to be myself — without punishment or criticism. Everyone has nagged, or criticized, or insulted, or tried to remake me. And there have been many who have actively and viciously attacked me when I failed to allow myself to be remade in their image. I honestly don’t grasp, in light of all this, why there are so many people who do not understand why I don’t like human beings. Why do they think I would like humans, in light of this shabby (at best) treatment I’ve received from them? What grounds do you think I would have to be enamored of humankind?

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read…      Neverending solitaire  (asperger’s)…   Lifelines

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


a human family

Page Seventeen, website outline

Yes, I have, technically speaking, a family comprised of human beings. But I have them only in a biological sense. I don’t have them physically or emotionally or geographically.

In 1997, the seeds of disaster that had always existed in my human family (which I’d hoped would never sprout, never take root), grew into things of ugliness that it would take me a very long time to describe. Suffice it to say, for now, that due to venom in some, indifference in others, and naked self-centeredness in others, there has been since 1999 no human family for me in matters both practical and emotional. I was cut loose to twist in the wind, and have been twisting ever since.

In the twenty-three months since I’ve not had an apartment, I’ve lived in rented rooms, shelters, hospitals, respite facilities, a park — and not once has even one member of this human so-called family come to Franklin County in Massachusetts to see if they could help me. In April of 2009 I asked a cousin and a sibling if I could come and stay with them, and no answers were ever given, meaning the answers were No.

I can’t think of one essential thing about myself that wasn’t criticized or laughed at in my family (even if only behind my back, as if I were too dumb to catch on), and also in the world at large. My bookiness and tendency to isolate; my infrequent smiling; my feelings for animals; my anxiety disorder; my depressions; even my brains and education were used to bludgeon me. Anything at all about Anne was always fair game. Still is. I had a greater need to feel accepted by family than most people do, perhaps, because I found the larger world outside the home so difficult, as many people with Asperger’s do. And the more I was singled out for laughter or bitching or general criticism, the more scared I became that there was nowhere where I was “at home.”

And yet, there are many good things to be said about my upbringng too, and about the people who are related to me. It’s these good things, and the need I’ve always had to have family (both animal and human), that contributed to my constant efforts to stay connected with my parents, in spite of everything that hurt (until extreme events in 1998 broke off communication for good). My great difficulty managing in the larger world beyond  the family has played a role in increasing depression, PTSD, and anxiety since losing the people from whom I came.

Very unfortunately, for all of us I think, not just for me, those good things and good qualities that are part of my relatives didn’t win out over selfishness, jealousy, control-freakism, and other emotions that would not be managed.

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read…  Lifelines…   Neverending solitaire   (books in progress)

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

shelter life, et cetera

Page Sixteen, website outline

I have thus far stayed in three different shelters in two different states, and have had two trips each to two of them. I cannot say enough bad about the two in Massachusetts. The one in New Hampshire was better by far. Five stays in shelters to date, and I bitterly hope that there will be no more.

If I had to judge by the two Massachusetts shelters, both run by an organization called ServiceNet, I’d say that shelter life is designed to be degrading, to rob one not only of even minor privacies, but of dignity and of adulthood. You become a child being ordered around at daycare or summer camp.

At the New Hampshire shelter, there were very few rules. We needed to be in by 11:00 pm, and we each needed to do a chore once a week. Otherwise we could come and go as we pleased during the day. We each had fridge space and cabinet space and could cook our own meals, and each clean up only after ourselves. We could shower and do laundry any time the facilities were available. It was almost like living in your own apartment, except that it was a room, and you had to share the common facilities with other people. I didn’t feel demeaned or demoted to child status. Nor did I feel very invaded, as I had a bedroom to myself.

Very different in the ServiceNet Shelters. In Northampton we were kicked out at 7:00 in the morning and let back in at 6:00 in the evening. They did have more open hours from 9-12 and 1-3 when we shelter folk, and anyone else who wanted to, could get in out of the weather, have a snack, etc. But our shelter bedrooms were kept locked during these hours, so that we had no access to our belongings or our beds, and my bed was what I needed most those days.

I wonder if you can conceive of how shocking and horrifying, — yes, horrifying, — these shelters were to someone like me. I can’t speak for any shelters anywhere but the three I stayed in, and in two of those, the people were as unlike me as you can get. Most were alcoholics or addicts. Most had arrest records and jail time under their belts. Homelessness was a cycle they went through periodically, when, for whatever reasons, they stopped paying their rent. They were uneducated. They were sneaky. They knew how to kiss up to shelter staff and act like civilized, reasonably decent people, but then I’d encounter them hanging out with each other on the streets when the act was dropped, and their true, ugly colors shone out. This was especially true of the inmates of the Turners shelter. When you take a person who for fifty-five years has lived in houses or apartments and has paid the rent; who is reclusive and has Asperger’s syndrome and physical illnesses and chronic depression; who has never been arrested or served any time in jail, and so on, and throw such a person into this seedy, lunatic fringe atmosphere, it is devastating. At least it was for me. Culture shock, and all sorts of shocks, and the screaming torment of no privacy at all. I lived in a state of constant, high anxiety, and constantly bit down on my internal screams, keeping them from escaping through my mouth. Constant pretending. Not ass-kissing, as the others were doing, just pretending that I didn’t want to murder every single one of them so that I could have some privacy.

~~~  And now it’s 2011. I haven’t stayed in a shelter for two years now. But all I have to do is think about my various shelter days for a minute or two and here come the pounding heart and the shaking hands, the tears and the inability to sit still.  Maybe staying in a shelter isn’t an ugly wound for every person who does it, but it was for me.

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And then there was living outdoors for two months, which, while it entailed more physical hardship than the shelters, was in certain ways much preferable to them. When I think about that time living outside, I get the same shaking hands and pounding heart and tears, but I also get something else: the memory of the beauty of nature, and of nature’s animals all around me. The geese, squirrels, ducks, chipmunks, and so many more that I lived with. I was living in their home. The dusks and dawns… seeing every minute of them first-hand, with no window-glass between my body and the sky. I fed the animals every day, wherever I was camping. I was in the natural world, a part of it, in a way that you can only be if you live outdoors. That particular part of my homelessness showed me that if I owned my own land, I’d make it a point three or four times a year to pitch a tent and live outdoors for a week or two. To remind myself how the outdoors really feels.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Braonwandering

read…  Mental hell

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 
 

grief, bitterness and rage

Page Thirteen, website outline

Yes, some of the unpleasant emotions no one wants to talk about, or hear about, or feel. Most people, when they feel such emotions as these, stuff them immediately down into the subconscious. There they create all kinds of ugliness, but since most people don’t pay any attention to what’s roiling around in their subconscious, and how ugly a lot of it is, they don’t care. But all this stuffing comes out in their behavior, whether they choose to accept that or not.

I do not stuff anymore. When I catch myself pushing something down, I do my best to drag it back up and look at it, so that it won’t make more mess in the subconscious, and so that I can live in my own truth. This is at times extremely difficult to do, and sometimes takes months. I do feel grief for the fourteen animals taken from me all at once. I do feel rage at all the individuals who got together and accomplished this abusive feat. I do feel bitterness regarding the amount of trauma others have visited on me in my life, and the damage it has done. I’m not going to pretend otherwise, or euphemize these feelings, or stuff them.

                                                                  

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My friend recently sent me this poem on bitterness, and once I read it, I remembered I had read it way back in high school. If Stephen Crane were alive today and trying to get this poem published, I bet no one would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Bitterness is passé and politically incorrect and socially unacceptable (as are rage and grief as well).

                                                 

                                                  In the desert

                                     I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

                                    Who, squatting upon the ground,

                                       Held his heart in his hands,

                                               And ate of it.

                                       I said, “Is it good, friend?”

                                 “It is bitter — bitter,” he answered,

                                               “But I like it

                                           Because it is bitter,

                                      And because it is my heart.”

                                                           ~~  s.crane

And so it is with me. I accept my bitter heart, my grief, my rage. I don’t try to eliminate or change these emotions, unpopular and castigated as they may be. They were created in me partly by the Asperger’s that so alienates me from neurotypical people, partly by my immune system that disabled me and kept me from working to get the money that would have kept us safe, and partly by the deliberately cruel actions of other people. And while I could not control being born with Asperger’s and with an abnormal immune system, those other people could have controlled their impulses to cruelty, if they had chosen to. They did not.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Lifelines…      

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

                     

education and intelligence

Page Ten, website outline

I have education and intelligence in relative abundance, and therefore, ipso facto, I was not supposed to fail. While other factors in my life and in my nature were definitely in the way of any doing well, these two things I had in my favor, and was supposed to make success out of them. I thought so, and the neurotypicals around me thought so too. It’s yet another thing that people find subtle and not-so-subtle ways to punish you for: you were one who wasn’t supposed to fail. And since you did fail, we will punish you, or at the very least devalue you.

I spent nine and a half years in universities, which gives me shivers to contemplate now, now that it’s long over. As Kurt Vonnegut said more than once: How the hell did I do that? Truly, looking back, I don’t know, because the thought of spending most of every day on a campus now makes me start a headache.

So with education and native intelligence, you will surely make something of yourself, which, translated out of the land of euphemism, means: You will make your own money. You will buy your own home. You will not be dependent on family and on government agencies for help. You will not be a leech, a parasite. You will satisfy our clichés by pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and standing on  your own two feet. And if you don’t, you are worse than others who fail who lacked the blessings of high intelligence and good education, and we will disrespect you all the more.

And so it has been in the years since I went on disability in 1994. No one like me should be poor, should be getting government handouts, should be living in shabby apartments and driving ancient cars. You should be successful, at least financially. Many people have said these words straight out, and many others have adroitly implied them. You were not supposed to fail, and we look down on you for having done so.

How would these words and implications make you feel? Like so many other actions and words from my fellow humans, they have made me feel worthless. Because I could not turn my brains and talents and education into economic success and independence, I am a failed and valueless and highly disappointing creature. And don’t misinterpret, please: I do not define myself as worthless in my own eyes. It’s in the eyes of others that I am such a nothing. And it is both demeaning and debilitating to be thought of in this way.

If you commit the great indisgression of being a financial flop in our post-modern society, and if you further stomp on other people’s illusions (dare I say delusions) by being a flop in the presence of talent, education, and intelligence, then you are truly open to any old person’s scorn, or abuse, or garden variety insults, and so on. You have violated the delusional cliché that in amerika, anybody who wants to, anybody who tries, can have their own personal slice of the pie, and if you don’t have the pie, then you didn’t want it badly enough. You didn’t try hard enough. This happens to be enormous baloney. It’s amerikan propaganda at its most insipid. It’s a crock. It doesn’t work for everybody, doesn’t hold true for everybody, and it never has. Never, ever will.

 

read…    Lifelines…   Braonwandering

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.