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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Page Twenty-six, website outline

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Dec 15 (2008)  ~~  Dec 15

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Dec 8  (2009) ~~  Dec 22   ~~  Dec 24  ~~  Dec 24  ~~  Dec 30  ~~  Dec 30  ~~  Dec 30

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Dec (2010) ~~  Dec 1  ~~  Dec 1  ~~   Dec 2  ~~  Mugsy  ~~  Dec ~~  Dec 4  ~~  Dec 5  ~~  Dec 6  ~~  Dec 6  ~~  Dec 7  ~~  Dec 7  ~~  Dec ~~  Dec 8  ~~  Dec 9  ~~  Dec 9  ~~  Dec 10  ~~  Dec 12  ~~  Dec 14  ~~  Dec 15 ~~  Dec 15  ~~  Dec 16  ~~  Dec 16 ~~  Dec 16  ~~  Dec 17  ~~  Dec 19  ~~  Dec 21  ~~  Dec 21  ~~  Dec 22  ~~  Dec 26  ~~  Dec 27  ~  Dec 28 is at www.nemo-mentalhell.blogspot.com  ~~  Dec 28  ~~  Dec 31 ~~}

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 Dec 3  (2011) ~~  Dec 3  ~~  Dec 3  ~~  Dec 4  ~~  Dec 4  ~~  Dec ~~  Dec 6  ~~  Dec 7  ~~  Dec 10  ~~  Dec 11  ~~ Dec 12  ~~  Dec 12  ~~  Dec 17  ~~  Dec 18  ~~  Dec 18  ~~  Dec 19  ~~  Dec 19  ~~  Dec 29  ~~  Dec 29  ~~  Dec 31
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Dec 15 (2013)
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2016 ~~~~~ 

jan 4 ~~ jan 5 ~~ jan 6 ~~ jan 18 ~~ jan 20 ~~ jan 20 ~~ jan 22~~ jan 22 ~~ jan 27

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((())) — a list of the books-in-progress is here
 
 
 
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the future

Page Twenty-two, the website outline

My immediate future was shown to me yesterday afternoon (3/22/10), and I’ve been crying almost constantly ever since. What I was told would be an efficiency apartment turned out to be much worse than that — I’m claustrophobic, and a real efficiency would have been hard enough to be in for more than a year. But this thing the social service/housing system has for me doesn’t even rise to the level of an efficiency. I took my friend in to see it and she said, loudly and with real shock in her voice, This is it? This is like being in jail.

And a couple of hours after I saw this little box that I’m supposed to try to exist like a human being in, I had a full-blown panic about moving back to Turners Falls for the fourth time. This panic has been building for a couple of weeks, and yesterday it burst into full strength: I’ve lived among these despised people three times now, can I really do this again? My heart yearns all the time to the nature in this town that I shared with my animals, to the memories of me with them, and them with me. But can I withstand living among these ignorant, tight-fisted, inbred, phony-christian, anti-intellectual, anti-anne nakis individuals again? And the answer is that I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen.

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So now I am moved back to the toxic little burg on the river. Today, the 31st of March 2010. Two years and three weeks after the eviction. Thanks to the indifference (and underhandedness) of the Department of Mental Health, and the indifference of Matthew and all he represents, I was two years and three weeks without a rental unit.

Future Past                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Future Present  

read…   Being toward death…   Braonwandering

 

 

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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.

 

federal “protection”

Page Six, website outline

This is the subject that causes the greatest trouble, the greatest insult to my integrity and my sanity, the labelling of me as “delusional,” which I am not now, nor have ever been.

Being in federal “protection” was never, prior to 2008, something I ever thought about, and it has never at any time been something I lied about, or something I imagined.  It has been, since about July 10 of 2008, something I was told about, out of the mouth of a real-live individual calling himself Matthew Lacoy, and I have believed him. For reasons that are convincing enough to me, to both my intellect and my ability to pick up the seriousness in Matthew when he told me these things, I believed him two years ago, and I believe him now. If someday someone with any credibility, someone in a position to know, convinces me that Matthew Lacoy lied, then I will cease believing him. Such a person has not yet presented themselves.

But if your mind is so closed that you can’t conceive of an innocent person stumbling into an organized crime hornet’s nest and ending up in an extremely vicious form of federal protection, then your mind is no doubt going to remain closed. I find that most people would rather hurl armchair diagnoses on the subject of what Matthew told me, than even allow a little space in their minds for the possibility that what Matthew said had happened to me could happen to anyone. So if you feel compelled to label me as something, then all you have any legitimate grounds to call me is gullible, or even stupid, for believing the things Matthew said and did. But you have no right to call me a liar, or to call me a delusional. There is no justifiable basis for such insults to my integrity and to the kind of mind I have.                                                                                            

This kind of situation, this undercover, cloak-and-dagger crap that I’ve had to endure, is by no means glamorous. Certainly I’ve known people in my life who will lie about absolutely anything in order to be on stage, to get attention. To minds like that, a situation like the one Matthew said I had might appear exciting and highly rewarding in the attention-getting department (if such a mind could get someone to believe them). But I am not one of those types and never have been. I’m not a center-stage seeker, nor a seeker after the bizarre and the titillating. My observations of the things Matthew and his colleagues did, and the things they said, and the way I was apparently (Matthew never denied it) used by them, did not give me feelings of being special in any positive way, or of undergoing something exciting. On the contrary, the words and actions of Matthew and his ilk left me with a deep loathing for this country, and for all law enforcement. That is what remains: a disgust for the US government and for any kind of cop anywhere.

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read…    Spite and malice…   Sehnen

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

the department of mental health

Page Two, website outline

In Massachusetts, the Department of Mental Health is a state-wide, state-run, state-botched, lumbering and uncaring bureaucracy. I wish I had known that in January of 2007.

It was to this (I now know) indolent and incompetent juggernaut that I appealed when I was being illegally evicted from my apartment.                                                                                                        

They had an entire year to find me a home where I could afford the rent and keep at least some of my 14 animals. They did almost nothing to that end. They did, however, do other things behind my back, some of which have taken a long time to find out. Some I will never find out. They, and their contract agency, Community Support Services, lied to me, told lies about me, and presided over the destruction of my life and a tremendous worsening of my depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. At 55, with these issues as well as physical health issues, they let me lose all of my animals, who were literally my reason for living, and be put onto the streets homeless. I remain without an apartment of my own nearly two years later. I do not maintain that this wretched failure of service was committed to stick it to me, to pay me back for reporting the DMH to Governor Patrick’s office and to their overseeing body, Health and Human Services. There may have been an element of revenge in it, but I still believe that the greatest reason for the downright unconscionable “service” I got from the DMH and CSS was laziness. These state employees are shockingly lazy, and to find a place with a low rent where some of my animals would be allowed was something they just didn’t want to bestir themselves to do because it would have taken some real effort. Their idea of helping someone find an apartment is to give you a phone number for a housing project. Projects do not allow more than one animal, so that was a solution that was not going to be right for me. These DMH cretins have lists of landlords in the community, and work with these landlords periodically. But to go through these lists making phone calls, explaining about the psychological meaning of my animals, and trying to find someone who would let me keep about half of them would have taken time and effort. The same time and effort they spent arranging for places for my animals to be hidden and later killed.

The conduct of the Department of Mental Health both shocked and appalled me, as I naively believed that because their purpose is to help, that they would help. I further naively expected that I wouldn’t be lied to by these people who were supposed to help me, nor that they would do things behind my back that they had no authorization from me to do.

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It’s now April 2010, and I’ve written in other places that on April 1 I moved into what can loosely be called a rental unit, but never an apartment. About the size of a ponystall, it is tantamount to living in a small cell that has a huge window and a bathroom to glorify it a bit. After two years and two weeks of living in a technical state of homelessness, when I had no rental unit of my own, thanks to the DMH and CSS,what I get is a cell with a few embellishments. And I’m claustrophobic.

I cannot say enough bad about this inhumane way of housing poor people, which I only applied for because it was the fastest way to get what is called a movable section 8, a rent subsidy which is not tied to the project you live in, but which you can use in any apartment where the landlord will accept it. You are not condemned to project living for the rest of your life.

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read…  Spite and malice…     Mental hell

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