remorse

Page Twenty-five, website outline

Like the relating of things Matthew told me about my life, and things he did, remorse is a very touchy subject with people. And like so many other things, it has trickled down from the psychobabble boneheads to the general population that remorse = guilt = bad. You are not supposed to feel remorse, because remorse is just a squeak  away from guilt, and guilt is something we don’t feel anymore. We don’t let anyone guilt-trip us anymore.

In my own alternately wired, autistic mind I see remorse as something we feel when we truly believe we haven’t behaved according to our own definition of right and wrong, whatever that happens to be. We are acknowledging to ourselves that we haven’t held to our own code. If we acknowledge it to ourselves, and another person has been involved in this breaking of our own code, then it follows that, however difficult, we need to acknowledge it to that other person too.

And this is my premise for concluding that Turners Falls denizens either have no moral code whatsoever, or they have codes so skewed that I myself could never call these notions moral codes at all. Back in the fall of 2009, one Turners Fallsite told me she was sorry she hadn’t come to get me out of the little park when I was living there in 2008. I almost cried. One person from a whole townful of people apologized for leaving me in that park. I was moved.

Well, I needn’t have bothered being moved. Over the course of the ensuing month, this person turned out to be yet another Turners Falls wingnut, drama queen, actress, phony. I can’t take anything she said seriously. So my one apology from a person in this burg has been erased back down to zero. There have been no others, and I don’t expect there ever will be. All I get is more shunning, more gossiping done about me, more subtle forms of bullying and harassment. Moral code has never seemed to be a concept in this town, not since I came here in 1985.

And the whole nobody’s-gonna-guilt-trip-me thing seems to be very widespread in our culture now. People do not apologize much anymore over anything. There seems to be a tremendous reluctance among amerikans to admit to any kind of wrongdoing at all, as if admitting such a thing would be a complete annihilation of their adolescent, ridiculously fragile egos.

Update:  I wrote this post early in 2010, before I had moved back to Turners on April 1. Now it’s 2011. I’m back here for nine months, and still not one single Turners troll who left me living in that park in 2008 has expressed one syllable of remorse. Not one of the trolls who was part of disappearing my animals has said a single I’m sorry, nor has any one of them told me where and when my various animals were given the lethal injection. One of them did, however, show up on one of my blog posts in October 2010, using a phony name, to criticize me for criticizing the denizens of Turners Falls. They cannot spit out a single word of remorse, but they can despise me for my hurt, my anger, and my bitterness towards them.

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read…   Poison and snowflake trees…     Braon

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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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turners falls, in massachusetts

Page Twenty-one, website outline

                        “Human beings are a lot meaner and stupider
                                     than they think they are.”
                                           ~~~   Kurt Vonnegut
                                                     Timequake (I think)
 
 
                       Bite the hand before it feeds you;
                       feeds you poison, feeds you shame.
                       Bite the hand before it beats you,
                       beats you to a bloodless name.
                                                                       

 

Two days ago I was talking to a woman who said this, just about verbatim: I came here three years ago when I fled my ex-husband, and my life has done nothing but go downhill since I’ve been here. I’m doing everything I can to get out.

And I did that too. For years. After I’d been in this town about the same amount of time that she has, I wanted out. And I tried for years to get out. Finally, in 1997, I escaped back to my original town in eastern Mass, and found utter mental chaos going on in my family home. So again I tried with diligence to find another place to live, but one out there. To stay in eastern Mass and never cross route 128 again. But it didn’t work. After thirteen months, my daughter found me a place in Turners Falls that I could afford and would accept my animals, so that after only a brief escape, I was back. Back with a very heavy heart in many ways.

In 1992, when I’d been here for seven years, I had the idea that I’d write a book about this place with the title Poison and Snowflake Trees. I even began work on this book, but that particular word processor disk is one of the many, many objects that other people have deprived me of since 1998. For me that title completely grips the painful dichotomy that has always been life in Turners for me: the undeniable, mesmerizing beauty of the nature; and the equally undeniable, tenacious ignorance and meanness of the people. Poison for the humans, snowflake trees for the nature.  All these years later, I’m starting that book again, structuring it as a collection of vignettes that are the blog posts I’ve been writing about Turners for close to three years now, together with new writing.

This year’s crop (2010)              

                                                                         

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And now it’s April 26, and the snowflake trees have sprouted to six inches high along the canal. The cherry trees (the center of Turners is full of them) and the lilacs are blooming. The ducks want people to feed them. There’s a black squirrel living near the library. The Turners spring I know so well is in its happy throes. 

I walk in places where my animals and I used to live, where we used to walk, where we were so happy in each other’s company and so fascinated with every molecule of nature around us. I walk,cry and remember. And if the nature that we loved together for nearly twenty-two years is still here, still all around me as I walk and cry, well so is the poison. It emanates from every human body that I pass; it is in the words from their mouths; it is in their behavior.

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The flowers on this page: I can just hear the wheels turning:  There’s no such thing as snowflake trees. This broad’s really nuts. No, as far as I know, there is no such thing as snowflake trees. The common name for this plant is meadow rue, but when I found them I didn’t know this. It would be two or three years before I would find out the plant’s actual name, and in the meantime  — with my Asperger’s penchant for naming people and things in ways that fit them better than their real names — I called them snowflake trees. I’ve been naming things my own names for years.

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The snowflake trees and butterfly flowers (also known as milkweed) are blooming now; now being June 16. Nothing of the snowflake flower’s grace and nothing of the sweetness of the not-much-to-look-at milkweed flower can stem the human toxicity here. I’ve always wished that it could. That the sweetness of lilac scent and laurel scent, milkweed and rose could somehow alter the wormy psyches of these people. That the soft mist rising from canal and river could wash the nastiness out of them. But such has never happened, and I don’t suppose it ever will.

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Something I sometimes do these days: squiggling a mouse around a table to use the Windows Paint. I see this one as an abstract rendition of the anxiety,anger and dislike I feel among the people of this town.

                                                                Junktown 2010

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read…  Braonwandering…    Don’t ask

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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.

 

justice

Page Twelve, website outline

The problem with justice in my existence, is that I can rarely ever have any, either legal or moral. I can never have justice against the mentally disturbed landlady who illegally evicted me, or against the Department of Mental Health that sat back and let my life be destroyed (thereby taking very good care of my mental health), or against the underhanded, undercover, illegal protection that Matthew Lacoy told me I was in. Many people have told me I can’t sue the feds, and I believe them. I could sue the DMH, if I had the money. I don’t. And they knew that when they sat back and let my life be obliterated.

                                                                        

When everything you define as your life is illegally and immorally destroyed by other people, you want some justice. You want some of these people to be held accountable for their reprehensible conduct. At least I do. Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d just walk away and say that’s the way it is. There certainly are many people who would react that way, who seem to possess no sense of outrage at being illegally and immorally bulldozed by others. Who seem to have no fire in them in any realm of life. But I’m not a fireless person. I had fires for my interests while I still had my life, and fires inside for my deeply loved animals, and fires for horrible things happening all over the world: love fires and activist fires. If I’d been physically healthy, and if I’d met similar people, I might well have become an out-front, practicing activist for some issue or other. So I’m not at all the sort of person to have vicious things done to me by other people and by huge agencies, and not want some justice. But in the true world of living below the poverty line, you don’t get justice. People will perhaps shout: legal aid! Not here, not in Massachusetts. Legal aid will only represent low-income people for certain issues and in certain circumstances. Anything that doesn’t fit into their narrow scope will not be touched by them with a ten-foot pole, because they would not be paid for the work.

Before 2007, there were other issues. To name just two: No justice against the mother who took a house away from me; no justice against a woman who had two of my birds in foster care and refused to give them back, even when her boss and a lawyer told her she must. And on and on it goes.

What kinds of thoughts would a lifetime of people getting away with illegal and immoral actions against you engender in you? In me this repeated and repeated lousy treatment has left me with convictions that I’m worthless in the eyes of other people: they can do any damned thing they please to me, without ever having to be held accountable or make amends. And the certain knowledge that because I’m poor, I’m powerless. I have hired lawyers from time to time, for a few hundred dollars, to do very short-term letter-writing and phone-calling. But to launch a suit against someone is beyond my means. Poor equals powerless to get justice, to defend oneself against vicious crap. Worthless, powerless, disposable.

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read…    Braon…   Spite and malice

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

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