these teachers I never met

Page Twenty-nine, website outline

wandering among some of those whose work has influenced me, and taught me

eliot                                                                        goethe                                                     jung

                        maslow                                                                   whiteley 

 

 krishnamurti                                                                    vonnegut                                                             patchen

                                     goldstein                                            heidegger                     

                     poe

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the mafia-chick and the landlady

Page Fourteen, website outline

This crime-chick thing I often discuss isn’t just some kind of a sarcastic joke I have put into the blogs over the last twenty-two months. She is real. She exists. She has a real name, which I never use, and lives in a real place, which I probably have mentioned on occasion.

I saw her two days ago, and the last time before that was on February 20 (2010). Riding around in what I’ve always called her white chariot; a small, cheap Ford convertible that looks so flimsy that it would become an accordion if anything hit it. It’s her attitude toward the car that makes me call it the chariot. She has this energy emanating from her whenever she’s in that car that she’s driving an MG or a Mazzerati. Like it’s the most expensive, most special white convertible in the world, when it’s basically junk. This is the attitude that she has about everything that concerns her: she’s the most beautiful, the funniest, the smartest person going. Her boyfriend is the handsomest man in the world. Etc. Everything about and around her is the absolute best. And it just ain’t so. It’s the dream world she lives in. When you take away the external trappings, she’s just like any other two-bit alchoholic and drug-dealer, with one important difference: her psychosis is sociopathy, which makes her conscienceless, ruthless and vicious. She tormented my animals and me relentlessly for 17 months, and ingratiated herself with the landlady (another woman with no conscience) to the extent that she helped engineer my illegal eviction. She wanted me out, and she wanted me to lose my animals.

She got her way. I lost everything , and she lost nothing. Those who were supposedly protecting me from the Connecticut mobbies the chick is related to by marriage have never, as far as I know, managed to get her arrested for her drug dealing or her connections, or for asking those connections to get me. Matthew once told me that they didn’t want her, they wanted the “big fish.” Well I want her. I want her scrawny buttocks (which she of course thinks are the most beautiful glutii maximi that the human genome ever created) in jail, where they belong. For drug-dealing, for working for mobbies, for asking her vermin associates to damage me (according to Matthew). For anything at all.

... And the landlady

Well, this woman is seriously mentally diseased too. When she and the crime chick found each other, it was like a match made in heaven. Perhaps you’ll sneer in disbelief that two severely mentally warped people could have crossed one person’s path at one and the same time. And  I, living in this excess of psychosis my whole life, don’t sneer in disbelief, I despair in it. How can so many psychotic people enter the life of just one person? Do I have a tattoo on my head that says Psychos, come get me? No, but I do think there’s a vulnerability, a fragility in my make-up that attracts such people: like heat-seeking weapons, they are drawn to the place where they can do the most damage. And the oddness of Asperger’s, for which non-autisitcs seem to have radar, is another contributing factor.

This landlady, this professional woman, zeroed in on me just exactly the way I imagine a heat-seeking weapon would. And over the course of 4 years, she did the ultimate damage, the worst damage that no other psycho had yet managed (though they’d tried): she saw to it that I lost all my animals and was put on the street like a bum. She had help from the DMH of course, but she was the one who started it all.

Like other psychotics I’ve known, she lies from dawn to dusk. Sadly, many of her clients believe her lies, and her business practices are as shady as the day is long.

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As they sometimes tell you in movies:   eight months later.  Today being 13 November 2010, and I live back in Turners Flails now since April 1. And in these months, I have a few times seen either the psycho-alcoholic-druggie-pusher-mafia-chick (Judith), or the psycho-white-collar-lawbreaker-extraordinaire, the landlady (Lolly). But a week ago, I got the double-whammy. In the space of forty-eight hours, I saw both of them.

When I left this library one week ago today (Sat 6 Nov), I saw Lolly at about 11:40 a.m. At the bank. And then on Monday 8 Nov, while waiting for a bus, I saw Judith at 11:25 a.m. No longer driving the white chariot. Driving a vehicle she didn’t have back in the days when we lived at the same address.

In all my past writing on the blogs that are now part of this website, I’ve said very little about Judith and Lolly. It’s extremely difficult for me to write about these two psychotic furies out of legend; furies that you don’t expect you’ll ever encounter in real life. It’s that difficulty that has prevented me for nearly three years from going into detail about how they treated me, the things they did and said. It’s long past time for me to do this. One of the stories I wish to tell thoroughly on this website, one of the stories of the little book called Spite and Malice, is this truth about what I was subjected to by these two mentally disturbed females.

I don’t know when it will actually start in the blog posts. When I will actually travel back in time to those four years of lying, psychological bullying, stealing, and unrelenting harassment. I keep telling myself to begin, but these two sociopaths are so odious to me that to write what needs to be written about them, to even think about them, is painful to a degree I can’t adequately describe. I hope I will start soon, but then I’ve been hoping that for months.

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read…   Spite and malice…   Poison and snowflake trees

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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.

                     

therapy (and psych drugs)

Page Eleven, website outline

                                                                                                                      

         “What we call ‘normal’ in psychology is really a 
           psychopathology of the average, so undramatic
           and so widely spread that we don’t even notice it
           ordinarily.”
                                                                      

                                                    Abraham Maslow

 

                  “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a
                    profoundly sick society.”
                         

                                                                             Jiddu Krishnamurti

I found these two insightful observations in another text, written by a person who is neither Maslow nor Krishnamurti. I fear from the context in which I found them that these quotes are being liberally used by new-agers of the airhead philosophy variety to proselytize for meditation and yoga and letting go of ego and becoming one with everything, which are fine ideas if you don’t go haywire with them and shoot out into the ozone. But most new-agers do shoot out into the ozone.

I, a committee of one, will turn these insightful observations to a completely different purpose. I use them here to condemn, fervently, this psychopathology of the average. To condemn, vehemently, the idea of becoming well adjusted to a very sick society. It is the succumbing to the conditioning that browbeats us to become part of this average, to become this so-called “well-adjusted” robot in the sick society, that is partly responsible for allowing the sickness of society and the lacklustre of the “average” to proliferate to their current malignant levels.

And now a hypothesis of my own (formed with evidence garnered from much personal experience):

       Many people who go into the psychology profession, at any level,
       do so because they are pretty well screwed up. They believe that
       taking this course of study will make them better, and then they
       can hang up a shingle and make OTHER people better. Fraid not.

Let me qualify that a bit and narrow my hypothesis down to therapists in Franklin County, Massachusetts. While I lived the first half of my life in eastern Mass, I did have some very good therapists. But moving to western Mass has been a descent into ignorance, in the therapy world and in many other ways too.

I stopped taking the antidepressant (celexa, if that’s how you spell it) midway through December 2010, having started it about seven months before. The longer I stayed on it, the more tired and listless I became. Lowering the dose was tried, but over time the same thing happened. I still take the anti-anxiety, but an attempt to raise the dose from a half milligram to a whole one brought on the same tired, listless result. There are a great many things my abnormal immune system doesn’t like, and I don’t think it likes these drugs.

… Now it’s April 2010, and I don’t take the anxiety pill anymore either. Though I’d like an anxiety pill to use as needed, to take when it really flares up, they won’t prescribe them that way anymore. At least not here in Franklin County, where people make their own rules about absolutely everything. No, they make you take these pills twice daily and have the junk in your system all the time. I don’t want it in my body all the time, and neither does my fierce immune system. The longer I stay on any one of these “psych” drugs, the more side effects I have. A doctor told me twenty-five years ago when I had side effects that I couldn’t take these types of drugs and should never take any again. But they keep coming out with new ones, and people periodically talk me into trying one, and it’s always the same: the longer I take it, the more depressed I get, the more tired and listless, headaches, and more. I don’t think it’s ever going to be a match, my body and the psychobabble boneheads’ drugs.

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read…   Lifelines…    Mental hell

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