Part VII: I See Dead People
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Part VIII: Dumpster Diving 101
"You never finish anything you start!"
Yeah, yeah yeah. These words ring like bells in the back of my mind. From finger painting to college degrees, it's all the same. I did finish undergrad, so does anyone really give a crap if I finished a finger painting in kindergarten? ;) I do however, intend on finishing this story.
I left off with the corpse in the backyard. A bright, sunny afternoon, possibly a Tuesday. Shots fired and me frantically hanging out the window yelling "Are you okay?" to a dead guy. Wouldn't be the first time I tried to carry on a conversation with the non-living. My first day as a nursing assistant I was assigned to a dying woman. I was instructed to wet this little spongie thing on a stick and run it over her lips for hydration. Also, she could suck water out of it if she was thirsty. I crept into her room, oh, I would say just about every five minutes, sticking the spongie thing on a stick into her mouth, hydrating and talking, hydrating and talking. I don't remember at what point I finally noticed she wasn't breathing, but it freaked me out. Not in a grossed out kind of way, hell, I had seen a handful of autopsies. I could eat a sandwich, post mortem bedside, while watching a cadaver brain being sliced like a piece of bread (it's actually called "loafing"),no problem. This was more like an "Isn't there something I can do?" kind of freaked out feeling. It had only been a few hours, but I felt like I knew her. I can't even remember how many times I asked the head nurse on duty "Are you sure she's gone? Are you sure? Check again! Make sure!"
She was as dead as a doornail.
The guy in my yard was also as dead as a doornail, but I still kept screaming out the window, asking him if he was okay. Maybe I am crazy.
Turns out there had been a drug deal gone bad, right there under my son's bedroom window. This was the last day of my stay at the corner of 20th and ___. I still stop in the neighborhood every time I'm in the city. Why? Poppy's corner store is the only place I have ever found that sells Mango flavored Juicy Juice. And you thought I was buying a bag of weed. Shame on you. ;)
I realize that in my last blog I had already moved out to "The County", but never quite touched on the "How I survived" part of the story. Simple. The tools of my trade were a hooked umbrella handle and a flashlight. I picked trash, cleaned it up, sold it, and generated an income. Later, after receiving several citations (because taking things that other people don't want is illegal. WHAT???) I graduated to buying stuff cheap and selling it expensive. Yard sales, e-bay, Craigslist, etcetera. I was becoming a regular hustler. One re-sanded and re-painted nightstand could bring in enough cash to feed my kids for a week. One ugly (the ugliest I had ever seen) gold charm bracelet at the bottom of a Goodwill dumpster = 65 of my kid's piano lessons. (So don't let it fool ya..I'z a poor mo fo. Just because my kids play sports and take music lessons doesn't mean I have money.)
This highly addictive behavior must be carefully monitored. If not it can become an issue. I collected and hoarded stuff for five years to open up a thrift store. After a basement flooding, I stuffed it all back into my garage, where it still resides today. I am not a hoarder, but I started recognizing behaviors. I do not throw things away. Ever. Someone, somewhere, might need it someday. I do not continue to bring things in. I donate every now and then when sales are slow and I get sick of looking at it all.
Some say that hoarding behavior comes from fear...the uncertainty of knowing what tomorrow will bring, or take. Others say this behavior stems from leaving all of your material possessions, or, somewhere along the line in life, being abandoned. I had to put an end to this before I found myself on television. You know the show.
So that's all I have to say about that. As much as I have enjoyed, and sometimes not enjoyed, writing this, it has to end somewhere.
I would like to leave you with a few things that come from the heart of my more "serious side".
Brace yourself for my next blog entry. MALES as Domestic Violence victims. That's right, I said "MALES".
http://domesticviolencestatistics.org/domestic-violence-statistics/
Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women—more than car accidents, muggings, and rapes combined.
The costs of intimate partner violence in the US alone exceed $5.8 billion per year: $4.1 billion are for direct medical and health care services, while productivity losses account for nearly $1.8 billion.
There are simple things to look for when you meet someone, go on a date, begin a relationship, etc.
a.) Read them b.)Learn them . c.) Don't forget them.
http://www.turningpointservices.org/Domestic%20Violence%20-%20Warning%20Signs.htm
Domestic violence is not so much about wanting to hurt the victim as wanting to CONTROL the victim.
Please take a minute of your time to watch this video. Copy and paste it into your browser.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1vjZdXoQ0nY
I hope you find these links informative and helpful. Also remember if you find yourself feeling leery about someone or something, you are probably right.
" Denial" is not a river in Egypt. Learn what it is and how to avoid it.
http://www.lhj.com/relationships/marriage/challenges/the-face-of-domestic-violence/?page=2
Yeah, yeah yeah. These words ring like bells in the back of my mind. From finger painting to college degrees, it's all the same. I did finish undergrad, so does anyone really give a crap if I finished a finger painting in kindergarten? ;) I do however, intend on finishing this story.
I left off with the corpse in the backyard. A bright, sunny afternoon, possibly a Tuesday. Shots fired and me frantically hanging out the window yelling "Are you okay?" to a dead guy. Wouldn't be the first time I tried to carry on a conversation with the non-living. My first day as a nursing assistant I was assigned to a dying woman. I was instructed to wet this little spongie thing on a stick and run it over her lips for hydration. Also, she could suck water out of it if she was thirsty. I crept into her room, oh, I would say just about every five minutes, sticking the spongie thing on a stick into her mouth, hydrating and talking, hydrating and talking. I don't remember at what point I finally noticed she wasn't breathing, but it freaked me out. Not in a grossed out kind of way, hell, I had seen a handful of autopsies. I could eat a sandwich, post mortem bedside, while watching a cadaver brain being sliced like a piece of bread (it's actually called "loafing"),no problem. This was more like an "Isn't there something I can do?" kind of freaked out feeling. It had only been a few hours, but I felt like I knew her. I can't even remember how many times I asked the head nurse on duty "Are you sure she's gone? Are you sure? Check again! Make sure!"
She was as dead as a doornail.
The guy in my yard was also as dead as a doornail, but I still kept screaming out the window, asking him if he was okay. Maybe I am crazy.
Turns out there had been a drug deal gone bad, right there under my son's bedroom window. This was the last day of my stay at the corner of 20th and ___. I still stop in the neighborhood every time I'm in the city. Why? Poppy's corner store is the only place I have ever found that sells Mango flavored Juicy Juice. And you thought I was buying a bag of weed. Shame on you. ;)
I realize that in my last blog I had already moved out to "The County", but never quite touched on the "How I survived" part of the story. Simple. The tools of my trade were a hooked umbrella handle and a flashlight. I picked trash, cleaned it up, sold it, and generated an income. Later, after receiving several citations (because taking things that other people don't want is illegal. WHAT???) I graduated to buying stuff cheap and selling it expensive. Yard sales, e-bay, Craigslist, etcetera. I was becoming a regular hustler. One re-sanded and re-painted nightstand could bring in enough cash to feed my kids for a week. One ugly (the ugliest I had ever seen) gold charm bracelet at the bottom of a Goodwill dumpster = 65 of my kid's piano lessons. (So don't let it fool ya..I'z a poor mo fo. Just because my kids play sports and take music lessons doesn't mean I have money.)
This highly addictive behavior must be carefully monitored. If not it can become an issue. I collected and hoarded stuff for five years to open up a thrift store. After a basement flooding, I stuffed it all back into my garage, where it still resides today. I am not a hoarder, but I started recognizing behaviors. I do not throw things away. Ever. Someone, somewhere, might need it someday. I do not continue to bring things in. I donate every now and then when sales are slow and I get sick of looking at it all.
Some say that hoarding behavior comes from fear...the uncertainty of knowing what tomorrow will bring, or take. Others say this behavior stems from leaving all of your material possessions, or, somewhere along the line in life, being abandoned. I had to put an end to this before I found myself on television. You know the show.
So that's all I have to say about that. As much as I have enjoyed, and sometimes not enjoyed, writing this, it has to end somewhere.
I would like to leave you with a few things that come from the heart of my more "serious side".
Brace yourself for my next blog entry. MALES as Domestic Violence victims. That's right, I said "MALES".
http://domesticviolencestatistics.org/domestic-violence-statistics/
Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women—more than car accidents, muggings, and rapes combined.
The costs of intimate partner violence in the US alone exceed $5.8 billion per year: $4.1 billion are for direct medical and health care services, while productivity losses account for nearly $1.8 billion.
There are simple things to look for when you meet someone, go on a date, begin a relationship, etc.
a.) Read them b.)Learn them . c.) Don't forget them.
http://www.turningpointservices.org/Domestic%20Violence%20-%20Warning%20Signs.htm
Too often, victims of domestic violence find themselves in a pattern of abusive relationships, going from one to another. This is why you need to (see a, b, and c.)
Domestic violence is not so much about wanting to hurt the victim as wanting to CONTROL the victim.
Please take a minute of your time to watch this video. Copy and paste it into your browser.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1vjZdXoQ0nY
I hope you find these links informative and helpful. Also remember if you find yourself feeling leery about someone or something, you are probably right.
" Denial" is not a river in Egypt. Learn what it is and how to avoid it.
http://www.lhj.com/relationships/marriage/challenges/the-face-of-domestic-violence/?page=2
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Part VII: I See Dead People
Hello again, everyone. My apologies for the delay. I have come to realize that this story is harder to tell than I thought. Perhaps it's am emotional thing. Or maybe the ADHD... what was this blog about? ;)
Oh, moving on. That's it. How easy it is to get stuck. How often do we want to rid ourselves of pain, and find ourselves engaging in self destructive behavior or living in denial? How easy is it to experience some kind of tragedy in our lives and then not carry the baggage? Letting go is not easy. I can joke about the fact that when I left my husband, his family had a yard sale, sold all of my stuff, and gave him the money. I can joke about the size of the perfect circle shaped hole that my head made when he bashed my head into the wall. I've had people tell me "That's really not funny. Domestic violence is not a joke." Um, really? Thanks for the heads up, there, buddy. But how about this? You deal with your pain your way, and I'll deal with mine my way. If you don't like it, don't read it.
So. Picking up where I left off...
Shortly before this series of fun and exciting events, my oldest, who was five, was in a psychiatric hospital for the second time and had been discharged into a therapeutic group home. I was against the idea, but once again I was threatened with involvement of Children and Youth Services if I didn't follow the Dr.s advice. I felt that I was being controlled again and was not happy about my son going to live with strangers. Since I had no choice in the matter, I agreed, after demanding to meet the people who would be taking care of them and see their home. They told me that this was not their policy , and, being an individual of persistent nature I started a ruckus until I got my way. Yes, I am the "squeaky wheel". I was as uneasy about this placement as much as I was about his hospitalizations, but after meeting the people and seeing their home, I felt a little bit better. The home was in the suburbs of Philadelphia and the caregivers seemed extremely caring and knowledgeable about my son's diagnosis of Aspergers Syndrome and ADHD. I knew more than enough about ADHD but had never heard of Aspergers. (Four yeas later I was diagnosed with it as well, and my understanding became more than clear.) I went with my gut and my little guy stayed with the family, coming home on the weekends.
We needed to move fast, and our options were limited. My income consisted of a small monthly disability check, and yard sale change. Since I was getting tossed out of the battered woman's housing program, I was on my own. My male friend offered to help, and by that I mean, to put it bluntly, to shack up and share expenses. I was hesitant about being in a relationship without having yet been divorced, let alone moving in with someone. I wanted badly to go back to work, finish school, and be self sufficient, as I had been for most of my life. At the same time, I was also, and still am, experiencing some health problems which require me to take a lot of medications including injections which I will be starting again within the next two weeks. At times I am quite sick, at other times, I feel just terrific. For the first few years after leaving, I barely left my home. I became a recluse and had panic attacks. I became dissociated and confused at times, forgetting where I was and why I was there. I had depression with a capital "D". I was bombarded by family and friends to "just forget about it", "go see a therapist" and "take your medication". The PTSD voices in my head were saying other things. Seemed like everyone had something to say, but nobody was listening. So, I just did what I usually do, and did things my way. Happy to say, it actually all worked out. I knew the area where my older son Noah was living and decided that, rather than uproot him again (he was doing quite well in school) I would just move out there where he was. I sold my van and had just enough to secure a beautiful apartment on the 3rd floor of an old Victorian house which sat across from Park Square. It was perfect. The boyfriend did come along, and we were within walking distance of my son. He only had a few more months to go before he could come back home for good, and was happy to find out that he'd be able to stay in his current school. Let me remind you that I was lucky to have my friend (who later became my domestic partner) there to help. If not, I would have been back in another shelter or on the street. Oh, I almost forgot about the title of this post. The day before we left the city, I heard a shot outside. It was, Oh, I'd say about noon. I looked out of my son's window (the same one where the little boys were throwing rocks months before) to find a dead guy, slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in my yard. That is all.
Until next time :0
Oh, moving on. That's it. How easy it is to get stuck. How often do we want to rid ourselves of pain, and find ourselves engaging in self destructive behavior or living in denial? How easy is it to experience some kind of tragedy in our lives and then not carry the baggage? Letting go is not easy. I can joke about the fact that when I left my husband, his family had a yard sale, sold all of my stuff, and gave him the money. I can joke about the size of the perfect circle shaped hole that my head made when he bashed my head into the wall. I've had people tell me "That's really not funny. Domestic violence is not a joke." Um, really? Thanks for the heads up, there, buddy. But how about this? You deal with your pain your way, and I'll deal with mine my way. If you don't like it, don't read it.
So. Picking up where I left off...
Shortly before this series of fun and exciting events, my oldest, who was five, was in a psychiatric hospital for the second time and had been discharged into a therapeutic group home. I was against the idea, but once again I was threatened with involvement of Children and Youth Services if I didn't follow the Dr.s advice. I felt that I was being controlled again and was not happy about my son going to live with strangers. Since I had no choice in the matter, I agreed, after demanding to meet the people who would be taking care of them and see their home. They told me that this was not their policy , and, being an individual of persistent nature I started a ruckus until I got my way. Yes, I am the "squeaky wheel". I was as uneasy about this placement as much as I was about his hospitalizations, but after meeting the people and seeing their home, I felt a little bit better. The home was in the suburbs of Philadelphia and the caregivers seemed extremely caring and knowledgeable about my son's diagnosis of Aspergers Syndrome and ADHD. I knew more than enough about ADHD but had never heard of Aspergers. (Four yeas later I was diagnosed with it as well, and my understanding became more than clear.) I went with my gut and my little guy stayed with the family, coming home on the weekends.
We needed to move fast, and our options were limited. My income consisted of a small monthly disability check, and yard sale change. Since I was getting tossed out of the battered woman's housing program, I was on my own. My male friend offered to help, and by that I mean, to put it bluntly, to shack up and share expenses. I was hesitant about being in a relationship without having yet been divorced, let alone moving in with someone. I wanted badly to go back to work, finish school, and be self sufficient, as I had been for most of my life. At the same time, I was also, and still am, experiencing some health problems which require me to take a lot of medications including injections which I will be starting again within the next two weeks. At times I am quite sick, at other times, I feel just terrific. For the first few years after leaving, I barely left my home. I became a recluse and had panic attacks. I became dissociated and confused at times, forgetting where I was and why I was there. I had depression with a capital "D". I was bombarded by family and friends to "just forget about it", "go see a therapist" and "take your medication". The PTSD voices in my head were saying other things. Seemed like everyone had something to say, but nobody was listening. So, I just did what I usually do, and did things my way. Happy to say, it actually all worked out. I knew the area where my older son Noah was living and decided that, rather than uproot him again (he was doing quite well in school) I would just move out there where he was. I sold my van and had just enough to secure a beautiful apartment on the 3rd floor of an old Victorian house which sat across from Park Square. It was perfect. The boyfriend did come along, and we were within walking distance of my son. He only had a few more months to go before he could come back home for good, and was happy to find out that he'd be able to stay in his current school. Let me remind you that I was lucky to have my friend (who later became my domestic partner) there to help. If not, I would have been back in another shelter or on the street. Oh, I almost forgot about the title of this post. The day before we left the city, I heard a shot outside. It was, Oh, I'd say about noon. I looked out of my son's window (the same one where the little boys were throwing rocks months before) to find a dead guy, slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in my yard. That is all.
Until next time :0
Friday, February 3, 2012
Part VI: Why I Hate Cheese Sandwiches.
My apologies to my faithful readers for slacking on the blog! Just thinking about where I left off kind of stirs up the kind of anger that gets in the way of writing...
Knock knock, Who's there? Ph______a Police, open the door now! "Shit!" A large group of officers asked if they could come in and look around, and, knowing (thinking) I had done nothing wrong, I invited them in. (Dumb move #1: not refusing and telling them to come back with a warrant.) They asked me where the "weapon" was. They explained that Tanisha had called and reported that I had pulled a knife on her, chased her down the street, and tried to stab her. (really???) She had a friend act as a witness and verified this lie. I tried explaining the real story, that she forced her way in and that I just picked up a small steak knife to intimidate her and make her go away, which she did. But there it was, the huge butcher knife, sitting on the counter. (Dumb move #2: not hiding the damn thing) Of course, it was the exact description of the knife she described. Next thing I knew, I was cuffed, brought down the steps, and shoved into the back of a paddy wagon, (which, for those of you who don't know, is a large police van.) "Tanisha" looked on with her victory smirk. I was outraged by the whole situation, and asked why SHE was not arrested. (Dumb move #3: not calling the police before she did.) Had I done this, she would have been arrested instead of me. A lesson learned. I dropped a few names of some officers that I knew, including the head of homicide and a few undercover detectives. I told them that I used to work for ____ , a well known Italian officer. They laughed at me and replied "No, but we know "Vinnie Bag O' Dounuts." Real comedians. I did not find the humor in their cocky remarks. They said I'd be processed at the local district and released. Instead, I was transported to the "Roundhouse" and, rather than be released "ROR", (released own own recognizance), I was given "release on bail". The only person that I called for bail money did not answer the phone, and I was stuck in an ice cold holding cell next to a woman who smelled like a rotten hoagie, like she hadn't showered in weeks, maybe months. I asked for a blanket and the guards laughed at me. I screamed and yelled until I was told to shut up. I should have known to just be quiet; this was not my first visit to the slammer for stupid, ridiculous bullshit. The "dinner" menu consisted of a dry cheese sandwich (with no condiments) and a warm carton of iced tea. That was the whole menu; no coffee, no dessert, no after dinner cordial. Not even a mint. I asked for some mustard and was laughed at again. I didn't sleep or pee for two days, because anyone walking by could get a free show if they so desired. I was finally bailed out by a friend and was was released. I attended my court date and was informed of my charges: "Brandishing an instrument of crime", "Aggravated assault", (which makes no sense because for an "assault" to occur, I'm pretty sure there has to be physical contact, which there was not)..."Terroristic threats", and some other charge which I do not remember. All charges were dismissed due to the history of the plaintiff showing she had done this type of thing to numerous other people, plus I had gotten letters and statements in my defense from neighbors. Regardless of the dropped charges, I still had to pay a percentage of my bail to the court and ask for an expungement of the arrest itself. When applying for employment, arrests still show up whether or not there are convictions, which give employers a biased opinion of an applicant's character. Soon after this fiasco, I was evicted, for "attempting to stab a fellow resident" (Really?) I had the papers to prove my innocence, but obviously that did not matter. The issue of a questionable bias arrest came up with my lawyer, who stated that since I was the only white person in the neighborhood, there would be an outrage in the black community. True or not, it made sense according to research. If I hadn't had more important things to concentrate on, I would have filed a lawsuit against the police department "Tanisha" continued to receive her assistance and stayed with her abusive boyfriend, while I frantically looked for a place to live. Believe it or not, things started getting better after the whole nightmare. Where did I go from here? :0
Monday, November 28, 2011
Part V: Tanisha and Dick ( pun intended)
Good Morning, and I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving! I feel like this story is never ending...so I want to wrap it up in a few more segments, and introduce some statistical information and resources that you or someone you know may find helpful.
I left off teaching my sons a lesson in racism. Well here's a little tidbit of my own experience...
I lived below a woman I will call "Tanisha" in transitional housing. Tanisha was an attractive woman with a seemingly "nice" personality. She had a 9 month old son and had entered the shelter and then transitional housing to escape abuse from her boyfriend. ( I will call him "Dick".) It would be accurate to say that any woman or man (yes, I said "man") who leaves an abusive relationship is somewhat "needy" at one point or another in the process of getting back on one's feet. However, Tanisha was the poster child for the term. Every five minutes I was bombarded with requests for rides, money, cigarettes, and laundry detergent. "Can you watch my kid for a an hour?" turned into multiples of hours. Due to my kindness and compassion for others, I helped her as much as I could. She started becoming a royal pain in the ass; every five minutes she would knock at my door and ask for something. I never asked her for gas money, or the return of a lent item, unless it was money, (which I foolishly lent her more than once, without having been paid back for the previous.) I was becoming a doormat, and I knew it. I quickly remembered what I had read a book a few years earlier called "Codependent No More": It's okay to say "No". In a program called "Al-Anon" (a twelve step program for friends and family of addicts and alcoholics) The concept is to not do for the addict what he (or she) can do for himself." (The "addiction" of someone like Tanisha is dependence. Myself, being codependant, did not understand this. I want to help everyone. I want to fix the world, blah blah blah.) At first I thought that this was being selfish , cold, and uncaring. It is not. When you find yourself "losing yourself" in efforts to help and "fix" others, it becomes a dangerous and self destructive situation. Neglecting to get to a class or other appointment on time in order to chauffeur someone else around is just that. I was putting my own needs aside in order to help her. In my marriage, I spent years of "self destructive behavior" trying to "fix" my husband. I beat my head against the wall for 5 years trying to get across to his parents that he had a gambling/temper problem that needed to be addressed...but to no avail. I literally drove myself insane. Seriously. "Nervous breakdown" insane. "They're coming to take me away, ha haa , hee hee, ho ho" insane, which resulted in a vacation in the looney bin, where I was entertained by people dribbling invisible basketballs and claiming to be Jesus. Of course, my untreated, Schizophrenic husband who thinks people are in the tv tries using this against me every chance he can get, the most recent being this year when he tried to get custody of the boys. Nice try, buddy, but no cigar. The voices in your microwave might have said "YES" but the judge said, "NO". Talking to my in-laws was like talking to a doorknob. There were times when they were in the same room and saw the man put his hands on me or my son and did nothing. I mean, really, did I need to spell it out? Anyway... I started breaking away from Tanisha. At first I would just not answer the door, which was useless as if the car was there, then I was there, and nobody could sleep through her "cop knock". I'd lie and say I had something else to do. She whined, gave me the puppy dog eyes, blah , blah, blah. "Someone give this woman an Oscar", I thought to myself). When I started saying no flat out, she became angry. Wow, and I thought I was bad. I lived above "Sybil"! Twice I found my tires slashed. (I wonder who did that???) The shit really hit the fan when I found out that Dick, the abusive boyfriend, had moved in with her. Now. There are rules in transitional housing. The first one being "Your abuser is prohibited from being on the premises." Actually there is supposed to be no contact at all, phone or otherwise. I spent many a night with my ear glued to the floor, listening to the screaming, the fighting, and that little baby crying. I could tell immediately that Dick was more of a psycho than my husband, and did not feel safe with him around. I contemplated minding my own business until I opened the door one day and saw the two of them fighting in the foyer. Dick slammed Tanisha into the wall, and the baby, who was in her arms, fell to the floor. Dick saw me standing there. "What you lookin' at, you damn white bitch?" he yelled. I closed my door and called the police and the housing administrator. He was arrested. Later that day she asked if it was me who called the police. "I sure did", I said. She cursed me out, and I told her that I came here to get away from violence, and I wasn't going to tolerate it. If she was okay with getting her ass kicked, fine, but I wasn't going to stand by and watch that baby live in danger, or have my kids exposed to it. She called me a cop-caller and some other choice terms, and I just ignored her and went about my business. I avoided her as much as possible after that day. Now I must tell you that she was not the only one in the building who was breaking rules. I broke the rule that almost everyone there did; no male visitors after nine- o- clock pm. I knew that this rule, although written, was not enforced unless abuse was occurring, but I don't think Tanisha knew this, because shortly after the police incident, I started receiving phone calls from the administrator: "We have been getting reports that you have had a male visitor on the premises past curfew." Although my male friend did not visit every day, it just so happened that every time he did, I got a phone call. The administrator could not tell me who called, but I knew it was Tanisha. I could just picture her scurrying for the phone ...."It's 9:01!!! She's got a guy in there!" I imagined her looking through the peek hole on her door to see who was leaving the building after nine-o-clock. I thought about disguising him as a Muslim, or dressing him in drag, but it was just easier to kick him out at nine and avoid the aggravation. Meanwhile, my tires were being slashed on a regular basis, I "wasn't receiving" my mail or my newspaper, and I was frequently finding "spilled" food or mysterious substances and trash in front of my door...whatever. At some time later, Dick got out of jail and was back on the scene. Again, I heard the bullshit downstairs. Glass was breaking and the baby was crying and screaming. Again, I called the police. At this point I didn't care less if Tanisha got her ass kicked or not; truthfully, I wanted to kick it myself. It was that baby that concerned me. The guy was not allowed on the premises under any circumstances, and was arrested again. That same night, my friend and I were watching a movie with my youngest son and were waiting for Chinese food to be delivered. My oldest was in a children's mental health facility at the time. (A whole different blog) I heard the doorbell ring and went to the window to tell the delivery guy I'd be right down, only to see Tanisha standing there. Um, she lives downstairs in the same building. Would it not have made more sense to just come and knock on my door? (the doorbell is outside of the main entrance; once inside, you can just knock on any door.) I saw her shoes on the sidewalk and wondered why she was standing there with no shoes on. She began screaming at me. "Come outside, you fuckin' bitch, I'm gonna fuck you up!" Good God, I thought. Are you freakin' kidding me? I laughed to myself at the sight of her, jumping up and down, screaming, flailing about. Although I'd never been afraid of much, at the same time I got the feeling that I wouldn't want to run into this person in a dark alley. I told her that I didn't have time for her Jerry Springer bullshit and sat back down on my couch. She was still screaming at me as if I was still standing there in the window. I ignored her. My son, who was 3 at the time, said "Mommy, make that lady be quiet! I can't hear!" "Oh," I thought to myself, "you have NO idea how much I would love to!" Meanwhile, Tanisha was laying on the doorbell, nonstop. I started getting pissed off, and went to the window and told her "Look, my son is in here. I don't need this right now. If you have something to say to me I'll talk to you later!" "Oh no," she screamed. "You're gonna come outside right now, bitch, come down, you pussy ass bitch!" This woman was nuttier than a fruitcake, and looked like a brick house. I'm 5'1', and she towered over me. I'll be honest: I was scared. I saw her square up and punch a 6'2" man in the face one day, and when he gently shoved her away from him, she started crying like a baby and called the cops. Poor guy was arrested, and didn't do a damn thing wrong to her. I knew him from the neighborhood. (Apparently he one-nighted her and it became "Fatal Attraction". I once told him once to watch out for his rabbit. He laughed with me, as he "got" the reference.) I stuck my head out of the window and told Tanisha she looked awfully funny out there in her bare feet, jumping around. I told her that we were grown adults that should be able to talk like civil human beings. She kept sticking her hand in her pocket, in a suspicious looking way that I had seen somewhere before. "If you don't come down, I'm comin' up!" (Meanwhile, so was the Chinese food guy.) She came storming up the steps, still screaming. My friend and I jumped up to make sure the door was locked. It wasn't, and she started trying to force her way in as we pushed back from the inside of the door. (meanwhile, the Chinese food guy was being bounced around like a pinball in the hallway, shouting spurts of broken English that I could not decipher) Other residents were coming out of their apartments to rubberneck. A crowd gathered outside of the building. Most were yelling "Leave that lil' white girl alone!" Tanisha's posse was egging her on to whoop my ass. I heard someone say "Don't do it, Tanisha! It's not worth it!" I kept thinking about her hand in her pocket. A few years before, my family had been held up at gunpoint by three men in Salem, OR. My PTSD kicked in at the sight of the "hand in the pocket" movements. Came to find out he (the guy in Oregon) had a knife. The other locked the house door and the third stuck a pump action shotgun in my face. That memory scared the hell out of me, but it also made me more mad. My blood was boiling, and I was worried about my son. Those three men didn't care about my kids being there, so why would she? We kept pushing on the door, and finally got it all the way closed. Sudden it got quiet, and the pushing from the other side stopped. I'd like to say that I immediately locked the door, but I didn't. I looked out the peek hole, and didn't see her. I became the idiot character that I yell at during movies who thinks that the predator has gone away, and opened the door. (kick me) She busted into my home, full force, nearly knocking me over. I ran over to the counter and picked up a big knife, and, pointing it in her direction, said, "If you come any closer, I'm gonna fuck you up! Now get the fuck out of my house!" It got quiet. She stood there, looked at me for a few seconds, turned around, and left. The Chinese guy was still in the hallway, so I got my food, went inside, and sat down to eat with my friend and my son. No sooner did I take one bite did I hear a "cop knock". Thinking it was her again, I screamed "Go away, I'm busy!" Then I heard a man's voice: "Police department! Open the door!" Shit...
I left off teaching my sons a lesson in racism. Well here's a little tidbit of my own experience...
I lived below a woman I will call "Tanisha" in transitional housing. Tanisha was an attractive woman with a seemingly "nice" personality. She had a 9 month old son and had entered the shelter and then transitional housing to escape abuse from her boyfriend. ( I will call him "Dick".) It would be accurate to say that any woman or man (yes, I said "man") who leaves an abusive relationship is somewhat "needy" at one point or another in the process of getting back on one's feet. However, Tanisha was the poster child for the term. Every five minutes I was bombarded with requests for rides, money, cigarettes, and laundry detergent. "Can you watch my kid for a an hour?" turned into multiples of hours. Due to my kindness and compassion for others, I helped her as much as I could. She started becoming a royal pain in the ass; every five minutes she would knock at my door and ask for something. I never asked her for gas money, or the return of a lent item, unless it was money, (which I foolishly lent her more than once, without having been paid back for the previous.) I was becoming a doormat, and I knew it. I quickly remembered what I had read a book a few years earlier called "Codependent No More": It's okay to say "No". In a program called "Al-Anon" (a twelve step program for friends and family of addicts and alcoholics) The concept is to not do for the addict what he (or she) can do for himself." (The "addiction" of someone like Tanisha is dependence. Myself, being codependant, did not understand this. I want to help everyone. I want to fix the world, blah blah blah.) At first I thought that this was being selfish , cold, and uncaring. It is not. When you find yourself "losing yourself" in efforts to help and "fix" others, it becomes a dangerous and self destructive situation. Neglecting to get to a class or other appointment on time in order to chauffeur someone else around is just that. I was putting my own needs aside in order to help her. In my marriage, I spent years of "self destructive behavior" trying to "fix" my husband. I beat my head against the wall for 5 years trying to get across to his parents that he had a gambling/temper problem that needed to be addressed...but to no avail. I literally drove myself insane. Seriously. "Nervous breakdown" insane. "They're coming to take me away, ha haa , hee hee, ho ho" insane, which resulted in a vacation in the looney bin, where I was entertained by people dribbling invisible basketballs and claiming to be Jesus. Of course, my untreated, Schizophrenic husband who thinks people are in the tv tries using this against me every chance he can get, the most recent being this year when he tried to get custody of the boys. Nice try, buddy, but no cigar. The voices in your microwave might have said "YES" but the judge said, "NO". Talking to my in-laws was like talking to a doorknob. There were times when they were in the same room and saw the man put his hands on me or my son and did nothing. I mean, really, did I need to spell it out? Anyway... I started breaking away from Tanisha. At first I would just not answer the door, which was useless as if the car was there, then I was there, and nobody could sleep through her "cop knock". I'd lie and say I had something else to do. She whined, gave me the puppy dog eyes, blah , blah, blah. "Someone give this woman an Oscar", I thought to myself). When I started saying no flat out, she became angry. Wow, and I thought I was bad. I lived above "Sybil"! Twice I found my tires slashed. (I wonder who did that???) The shit really hit the fan when I found out that Dick, the abusive boyfriend, had moved in with her. Now. There are rules in transitional housing. The first one being "Your abuser is prohibited from being on the premises." Actually there is supposed to be no contact at all, phone or otherwise. I spent many a night with my ear glued to the floor, listening to the screaming, the fighting, and that little baby crying. I could tell immediately that Dick was more of a psycho than my husband, and did not feel safe with him around. I contemplated minding my own business until I opened the door one day and saw the two of them fighting in the foyer. Dick slammed Tanisha into the wall, and the baby, who was in her arms, fell to the floor. Dick saw me standing there. "What you lookin' at, you damn white bitch?" he yelled. I closed my door and called the police and the housing administrator. He was arrested. Later that day she asked if it was me who called the police. "I sure did", I said. She cursed me out, and I told her that I came here to get away from violence, and I wasn't going to tolerate it. If she was okay with getting her ass kicked, fine, but I wasn't going to stand by and watch that baby live in danger, or have my kids exposed to it. She called me a cop-caller and some other choice terms, and I just ignored her and went about my business. I avoided her as much as possible after that day. Now I must tell you that she was not the only one in the building who was breaking rules. I broke the rule that almost everyone there did; no male visitors after nine- o- clock pm. I knew that this rule, although written, was not enforced unless abuse was occurring, but I don't think Tanisha knew this, because shortly after the police incident, I started receiving phone calls from the administrator: "We have been getting reports that you have had a male visitor on the premises past curfew." Although my male friend did not visit every day, it just so happened that every time he did, I got a phone call. The administrator could not tell me who called, but I knew it was Tanisha. I could just picture her scurrying for the phone ...."It's 9:01!!! She's got a guy in there!" I imagined her looking through the peek hole on her door to see who was leaving the building after nine-o-clock. I thought about disguising him as a Muslim, or dressing him in drag, but it was just easier to kick him out at nine and avoid the aggravation. Meanwhile, my tires were being slashed on a regular basis, I "wasn't receiving" my mail or my newspaper, and I was frequently finding "spilled" food or mysterious substances and trash in front of my door...whatever. At some time later, Dick got out of jail and was back on the scene. Again, I heard the bullshit downstairs. Glass was breaking and the baby was crying and screaming. Again, I called the police. At this point I didn't care less if Tanisha got her ass kicked or not; truthfully, I wanted to kick it myself. It was that baby that concerned me. The guy was not allowed on the premises under any circumstances, and was arrested again. That same night, my friend and I were watching a movie with my youngest son and were waiting for Chinese food to be delivered. My oldest was in a children's mental health facility at the time. (A whole different blog) I heard the doorbell ring and went to the window to tell the delivery guy I'd be right down, only to see Tanisha standing there. Um, she lives downstairs in the same building. Would it not have made more sense to just come and knock on my door? (the doorbell is outside of the main entrance; once inside, you can just knock on any door.) I saw her shoes on the sidewalk and wondered why she was standing there with no shoes on. She began screaming at me. "Come outside, you fuckin' bitch, I'm gonna fuck you up!" Good God, I thought. Are you freakin' kidding me? I laughed to myself at the sight of her, jumping up and down, screaming, flailing about. Although I'd never been afraid of much, at the same time I got the feeling that I wouldn't want to run into this person in a dark alley. I told her that I didn't have time for her Jerry Springer bullshit and sat back down on my couch. She was still screaming at me as if I was still standing there in the window. I ignored her. My son, who was 3 at the time, said "Mommy, make that lady be quiet! I can't hear!" "Oh," I thought to myself, "you have NO idea how much I would love to!" Meanwhile, Tanisha was laying on the doorbell, nonstop. I started getting pissed off, and went to the window and told her "Look, my son is in here. I don't need this right now. If you have something to say to me I'll talk to you later!" "Oh no," she screamed. "You're gonna come outside right now, bitch, come down, you pussy ass bitch!" This woman was nuttier than a fruitcake, and looked like a brick house. I'm 5'1', and she towered over me. I'll be honest: I was scared. I saw her square up and punch a 6'2" man in the face one day, and when he gently shoved her away from him, she started crying like a baby and called the cops. Poor guy was arrested, and didn't do a damn thing wrong to her. I knew him from the neighborhood. (Apparently he one-nighted her and it became "Fatal Attraction". I once told him once to watch out for his rabbit. He laughed with me, as he "got" the reference.) I stuck my head out of the window and told Tanisha she looked awfully funny out there in her bare feet, jumping around. I told her that we were grown adults that should be able to talk like civil human beings. She kept sticking her hand in her pocket, in a suspicious looking way that I had seen somewhere before. "If you don't come down, I'm comin' up!" (Meanwhile, so was the Chinese food guy.) She came storming up the steps, still screaming. My friend and I jumped up to make sure the door was locked. It wasn't, and she started trying to force her way in as we pushed back from the inside of the door. (meanwhile, the Chinese food guy was being bounced around like a pinball in the hallway, shouting spurts of broken English that I could not decipher) Other residents were coming out of their apartments to rubberneck. A crowd gathered outside of the building. Most were yelling "Leave that lil' white girl alone!" Tanisha's posse was egging her on to whoop my ass. I heard someone say "Don't do it, Tanisha! It's not worth it!" I kept thinking about her hand in her pocket. A few years before, my family had been held up at gunpoint by three men in Salem, OR. My PTSD kicked in at the sight of the "hand in the pocket" movements. Came to find out he (the guy in Oregon) had a knife. The other locked the house door and the third stuck a pump action shotgun in my face. That memory scared the hell out of me, but it also made me more mad. My blood was boiling, and I was worried about my son. Those three men didn't care about my kids being there, so why would she? We kept pushing on the door, and finally got it all the way closed. Sudden it got quiet, and the pushing from the other side stopped. I'd like to say that I immediately locked the door, but I didn't. I looked out the peek hole, and didn't see her. I became the idiot character that I yell at during movies who thinks that the predator has gone away, and opened the door. (kick me) She busted into my home, full force, nearly knocking me over. I ran over to the counter and picked up a big knife, and, pointing it in her direction, said, "If you come any closer, I'm gonna fuck you up! Now get the fuck out of my house!" It got quiet. She stood there, looked at me for a few seconds, turned around, and left. The Chinese guy was still in the hallway, so I got my food, went inside, and sat down to eat with my friend and my son. No sooner did I take one bite did I hear a "cop knock". Thinking it was her again, I screamed "Go away, I'm busy!" Then I heard a man's voice: "Police department! Open the door!" Shit...
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Part IV: Boyz in Da Hood
I was raised in a middle/upper class neighborhood where poverty did not exist. Things like welfare, food stamps, and housing assistance were unfamiliar to me. Unnecessary. Beneath me. My parents worked, I worked, and everyone I knew worked. This all changed when I realized that I was on my own with two small boys who needed to eat and get medical attention while hiding from the ex and his psychotic ex-policeman father. It was suggested that I apply for assistance immediately, so I did. I received $400 a month in cash and $300 in food stamps. I was placed in "transitional housing", where I would live for a year. Not to sound ungrateful, but when they sent me to look at the apartment, I was immediately pissed off as soon as I got out of the minivan that my parents had lent me during this time as (prior to that we were using SEPTA to get around which did not fare well with my son who has autism.) I was in the middle of one of the "harder" neighborhoods in South Philly. I had lived in some pretty bad neighborhoods back in the eighties when I was living with my Aunt and others in South Philly, and then on my own years later, but those were either Italian, Irish, or mixed neighborhoods. This neighborhood was a hardcore, old school, all black neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood the college kids from Jersey came to to buy certain party supplies back in the day. What some might call "the hood". I was a little intimidated after a guy on a bicycle rode past me and asked me if I was "working". In my naiivity, I answered him: "No, not right now..." Suddenly I realized what he meant, and kept on walking, ignoring him. I had been on my own since high school, so I was pretty street-smart, but still somewhat intimidated. I also tried to see the good in everyone. Now, transitional housing is designed to help single mothers who either had no work background, were educated but displaced, (that was my label). The program offered low cost rent and utilities for the women, with many rules and regulations, certain educational or occupational things put into place, and nental health treatment. You were interviewed, checked out, and had to be accepted. Now, you won't find many of these places in "nice" neighborhoods ,because other residents don't want them there. Same thing with low income housing such as Section 8 and HUD. I hate to say it, but people are very, very judgmental. However, there are some legitimate reasons for people feeling this way; The statistics of drugs and crime in some of these places speak for themselves. Not many people are packing glocks on the streets of Nether Providence or Glen Mills. Nobody is drinking Colt 45 out of a bag on the corner in Strath Haven. (Suburbia has country clubs and Xanax, don't get it twisted. They just hide their evil deeds a little bit better).
Anyway, I was immediately accepted into the graduate program at Alvernia University, and began classes. I hated the fact that I was on food stamps, and was ashamed to be seen on line at the grocery store. To me it was embarrassing. I have heard many people turn their nose up and say things like "Oh, there's no excuse. You should have just gotten a job and paid for sitters" or "You should have stayed with your family". #1. I was being hunted down by a psycho killer who would have found me at any job. (Unlike the ex, who works "under the table" for his family business, who claims they haven't seen him in years). #2. My parents live in an over 65 senior citizen oasis where children are not allowed. And #3. Don't judge me based on your ignorance. For people like me, welfare was a "step up", not a "hand out". And I only used it temporarily while attending part time mental health treatment. My kids and I ate at soup kitchens, churches, and parks. Some of the neighbors made plates for us and introduced us to "soul" food. I learned very quickly to be humble, and learned a lot about the ghetto culture. I made a few friends and some of the housing residents used to laugh and laugh at my "whiteness." (But not in a prejudiced way!)
All went well for a while, until one day my 4 year old called me into his room and said "Mommy! those kids are throwing rocks at my window!" I looked outside and saw four African American kids who looked about eight to ten years old. They were, indeed, throwing rocks at his window. I screamed out the window "If you throw one more rock at this window, you're going to jail because I'm calling the police!" One of the boys looked at me and said, "You're the one who's going to jail!" Wait. Wut? "Why am I going to jail?" I asked. "Because you're white!" He replied. I felt the adrenalin rising inside of me and fought off the urge to scream obscenities. Instead, I took my boys by the hand and went outside. I saw one of the boys grab a nerf football from my yard, but he didn't see me. I politely asked them to "Come here for a minute." They did. I asked the "ringleader" "Have you ever cut your finger?" "Yeah", he replied. "What color was your blood?" I asked. "Red!" he replied. I then turned and asked my sons the same questions, and they, of course , gave the same answers. "What's that supposed to mean?" asked one of the boys in the rock throwing group. "It means we're all the same, ya big dummy!" said the ringleader, smiling. This was my sons first lesson in racism, what it is, and what it wasn't, and that it would not be tolerated in or out of my home. I glared at the rock throwers with a sarcastic sort of smile. "We gotta go", said one of them. "Wait a second. Where did you get that football?" I asked. "I uh, found it, around the block." "Nice try," I replied. "Now give me the football." He gave it to me . One of them muttered something about his mother coming over to kick my ass, but the other 3 smiled at me, said thanks, said "See ya", and went home. His mother never did come over to kick my ass, but someone else did, and it wasn't my husband. That rock throwing child must have been a psychic, because I did go to jail.
Until next time...Have a great day! :)
Monday, October 24, 2011
Part III : My New Home
Where do we go from here? I will tell you. It is the rule of thumb to not disclose the location of battered women's shelters, but because this one no longer exists, I will. The picture that you see on this page was the shelter where the boys and I spent the next 9 months of our lives. It was demolished not too long ago. I cried upon hearing the news, as this building is the place where I began my "new life".
I never imagined that I would live in a place like this. It was a very beautiful, old, histiric building, but the people inside were like aliens to me. And so were the giant cockroaches and mice that lived under my bed and gnawed into my plastic bins of hidden food. (No fault of the facility, an inevitable situation simply because of the age of the building and it's location.)
Let me backtrack. Before we came here, we spent a week in another shelter in NJ. It was very structured, educational, and quiet. All residents were required to participate in classes to help deal with the issues of domestic violence, parenting, and empowerment. Many were college educated. This was good, but the staff was not big on mental health, which was becoming a problem area for me and the boys more and more each day. We were thrown out soon after my oldest son started having violent tantrums, and, rather than help me find resources to help him, they tossed us out on the street.
A family member made some calls and found this place. The staff was very kind and understanding. We were quickly taken in and assigned a room with another woman and her 2 year old son. She stunk of booze and beat her son with a belt on his neck as my kids looked on. Wait. What? Within a week I reported her to the staff and asked for a room change. I came her to get AWAY from violence, not see more. Another woman was screaming at her 5 year old daughter to clean up the mess she made as the crying child vomited on the hallway floor. "WTF is WRONG with these people?" I asked myself on a daily basis. There was a television in the huge cafeteria where all residents ate with their children. These women were watching Lifetime movies and other programs during breakfast which contained more violence than I had seen in my home. I spoke up one day and asked these women why they were permitting their children to view /be exposed to such content. I was immediately cursed at and told to mind my own business. The previous shelter was very strict about what children were permitted to watch on television. Even "MTV" was out of the question. Physical punishment was also not permitted. I approached the director about my concerns about the lack of education, and, although most of these women were uneducated and poor with no parenting skills whatsoever, I was shocked to hear the "reason" why. The state was not allowed to make any type of education or support mandatory to clients. (Logic???) This, to me, sent these women a message that said, "Leave the same way you come in, and jump right back into another abusive relationship, which is usually the case when no education is provided. Having a background in counseling and Psychology, (although non in the field of Domestic Violence), it just didn't make any sense to me. Once I was back on my own medications, I began to have a clear head, and understand more about what had happened to me as well. When someone flushes your meds down the toilet and tries to brainwash you into thinking you don't need them, and takes the battery out of your car so you can't see the doctor (I could go on and on)...this usually means something. "I don't want my wife to have a clear head, because then she'll wake up and realize that I am a psycho and leave me. And I need to keep her sick so she will depend on me...). Yup. My husband was abusive, but he wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what he was doing. His parents just enabled his abuse, making excuses for his anger and calling me a nag. Because I should just sit around, be submissive, and not say a word as he bullies me and berates me constantly, puts my head through walls, throws me out of moving cars, and knocks my teeth out. Be a submissive, Christian woman. This guy was a charmer, a liar, and a narcissist. His parents believed him, no matter what he said. To this day, I'm the bad guy, and I'm the liar, and I'm the problem. There's nothing wrong with him. Looking back and knowing what I know now, I know that the man is clearly insane. The violence. The narrow thinking and inability to see another's point of view. The controlling behavior. He is an untreated Schizophrenic, Narcissistic, Sociopathic nutcase. Of course he is, because "Therapy is useless" (words of my father-in-law) and "We don't believe in it." Talk about doing a disservice to your child.
Getting back to my son, he was getting worse by the minute. Ever since he was a baby, he would hit himself in the head with his fists when he became frustrated. Of course, nobody else thought this odd. His violent outbursts were horrifying. He was hearing voices that instructed him to kill me, staff, and his brother. He threatened to cut me up with a chainsaw and throw me into a desert mineshaft. He was hitting himself in the head more than ever. A case manager who took a liking to my family and helped us out above and beyond her duty suggested that he had Autism. I told her she was nuts. Autism to me was 'Rainman", and I had never even heard of Aspergers Syndrome or the "Autism Spectrum". After an outburst in which it took three staff members to actually restrain him, I was told that if I didn't admit him to a psychiatric hospital, we would be asked to leave as my son was becoming a danger to other children in the facility. I didn't know they had psych hospitals for children, and immediately said "No way." I was terrified of what might happen in a "place like that". Who would bathe him? Who would read him a story? Well, eventually I had no choice, and did what they suggested. This changed everything. My son was diagnosed with ADHD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Aspergers Syndrome...also possible Schizophrenia. My husband did nearly kill me a few times for leaving the microwave plugged in. (The oven was allowing the government to send us subliminal messages and doing mind control to overtake our minds.) And he believed this SOBER! Later on, my youngest was also diagnosed, with PTSD, ADHD, Anxiety, and OCD, same as me, diagnosed 20 years prior. Lovely. The diagnosis of my children made my Depression increase, but I held on and remained stable for the sake of my children. Of course I blamed myself for the hereditary aspect, and beat myself up constantly. Even while learning that much of this also came from my husband, didn't make me feel any better. But I couldn't give up, and took all the suggestions I was given. The staff at the shelter gave me resources and got my boys into a therapeutic preschool. They found me a therapist and a Dr. My kids were both medicated, against my better judgement because of their age and my denial... Today I am gratetful for those staff that went out of their way to give me so much support. I would never have known about the boys mental health issues and probably would have went off the deep end.
Meanwhile, I was still chased with broomsticks, stolen from, and pushed around by other residents...but learned quickly to adapt to the environment. I was the only white woman in the place most of the time. I grew up in an affluent area and went to a mixed school. Nobody was a racist where I came from. I thought that stuff went out in the 60s. But here, many of the women were racist and disliked me for no reason. One called my youngest a "white, blue eyed devil. (His eyes are brown). In any event, I wasn't taking any shit , and never showed fear. They eventually backed off, fearing that I was more crazy than they were.
This was going to be a bumpy ride, but never as bad as I would have imagined. After all, I was free, right? I was in for a big surprise on that one!!!
So how did I survive, financially, socially, and mentally? Keep following and share if you will. There was still a light at the end of the tunnel, I just had to find it.
After my personal story, I will continue with some very important information that will cover issues about Domestic Violence and it's complexities in general, from educational and well researched sources. The facts that most are unaware of .
Women Against Abuse Shelter in West Philadelphia, Winter of 2004:
Part II: The Leaving
In my last post, you probably remember reading that I had put up with abuse for 4 years of my marriage, and are probably wondering why.
Let me start off by saying that if you know me well, or have known me since childhood as some of you do, then you know that I kind of have always been very independent. I left home for personal reasons in the ninth grade and have worked hard and supported myself all of my life. I have never been one to take any crap from anyone, especially a guy. If you told me you didn't like what color pants I was wearing, I'd tell you not to to look, plain and simple. I was smart, strong, and streetwise, I also had a college degree in Criminal Law and worked for the school district. I was a well known bartender in town, and knew all of the bouncers. Lets not forget the boatload of people that I knew from working "back East" in Philadelphia. I was a South Philly bartender, worked in most of the clubs, down the shore in the summers, and knew just about everyone. Everyone I knew was either a cop or someone who was running from the cops. I had all the "connections" I needed. Could it still happen to me? Yes, it could.
If you read my last entry, you saw the last words spoken on the day that I left. "When I get back, I'm going to kick your ass right here in front of your kids, and the neighbors, and I don't care who sees." Well, I wasn't going to wait around for an ass kicking, so I took the full ten minutes that I had to get the hell out of dodge. I grabbed birth certificates, photo album, and jackets. I took my boys and, looking like something out of a Lifetime movie, ran as fast as I could down the street. I got around the corner and phoned a friend from work. She picked me up and brought me to the train station in Denver, Co. While waiting for the next train back to Philly, I took the kids to Chilis for a bite to eat. That was mistake #1. My husband and I had a joint bank account, so of course he traced my last transaction to the restaurant, which was right next to the train station, and not only did he know where I was, but immediately closed the account. With no money, I had to call my parents, who charged train tickets for me. We boarded the train for a two and a half day trip back to Philly. At each stop my heart pounded for fear that my husband would have somehow beat me to it, and be there waiting for me. We ducked under seats and hid in bathrooms throughout the entire trip. My kids were whining and carrying on as we had nothing to eat and of course, being suddenly pulled out of their familiar environment, although not a good one, added to each of our anxieties. A kind man handed me twenty dollars and told me to get my children something to eat. Fighting to stifle tears of humiliation, I did. One woman yelled at me: "I'm sick of you and your children!!! You need to correct them before you go on vacation!" I wanted to punch her in the face. Yeah, I'm going to Disneyland, bitch, I muttered to myself. At the same time, in a way, I felt like my destination was better than Disneyland. I was free. Going home, with my family, with all of the support I needed to get back on my feet. That kind of thinking was mistake #2.
My aunt from the city picked us up from the train station and no sooner did we get to her South Philly home did the phone calls start coming in. My mother in law threatened that I'd be arrested for kidnapping and my husband threatened to come to Philly and kill me. I believed him. He knew where they lived, and was a total psycho. We went to my parent's house in NJ that night, and soon after going to sleep and feeling somewhat safe, the inevitable happened. More threats, and now sheriffs shining lights into my elderly parent's windows at 3am, in the quiet retirement development in which they lived. Now he was going to kill my parents. Thank God my brother was Chief of the local fire department, and although small, the connection led the sheriffs to leave us alone. But where to go from there???
If you read my last entry, you saw the last words spoken on the day that I left. "When I get back, I'm going to kick your ass right here in front of your kids, and the neighbors, and I don't care who sees." Well, I wasn't going to wait around for an ass kicking, so I took the full ten minutes that I had to get the hell out of dodge. I grabbed birth certificates, photo album, and jackets. I took my boys and, looking like something out of a Lifetime movie, ran as fast as I could down the street. I got around the corner and phoned a friend from work. She picked me up and brought me to the train station in Denver, Co. While waiting for the next train back to Philly, I took the kids to Chilis for a bite to eat. That was mistake #1. My husband and I had a joint bank account, so of course he traced my last transaction to the restaurant, which was right next to the train station, and not only did he know where I was, but immediately closed the account. With no money, I had to call my parents, who charged train tickets for me. We boarded the train for a two and a half day trip back to Philly. At each stop my heart pounded for fear that my husband would have somehow beat me to it, and be there waiting for me. We ducked under seats and hid in bathrooms throughout the entire trip. My kids were whining and carrying on as we had nothing to eat and of course, being suddenly pulled out of their familiar environment, although not a good one, added to each of our anxieties. A kind man handed me twenty dollars and told me to get my children something to eat. Fighting to stifle tears of humiliation, I did. One woman yelled at me: "I'm sick of you and your children!!! You need to correct them before you go on vacation!" I wanted to punch her in the face. Yeah, I'm going to Disneyland, bitch, I muttered to myself. At the same time, in a way, I felt like my destination was better than Disneyland. I was free. Going home, with my family, with all of the support I needed to get back on my feet. That kind of thinking was mistake #2.
My aunt from the city picked us up from the train station and no sooner did we get to her South Philly home did the phone calls start coming in. My mother in law threatened that I'd be arrested for kidnapping and my husband threatened to come to Philly and kill me. I believed him. He knew where they lived, and was a total psycho. We went to my parent's house in NJ that night, and soon after going to sleep and feeling somewhat safe, the inevitable happened. More threats, and now sheriffs shining lights into my elderly parent's windows at 3am, in the quiet retirement development in which they lived. Now he was going to kill my parents. Thank God my brother was Chief of the local fire department, and although small, the connection led the sheriffs to leave us alone. But where to go from there???
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Part I: Introduction * The Last Day*
I am not looking for sympathy, warm fuzzies, or hugs. I want to share my story in an effort to educate people about the subject of domestic violence and hopefully let others know that they are not alone, and, although it is not easy, there is always a way out. I don't know why I find it so difficult to write this and have tried many times before. If it sucks, oh well. I suppose the fact that October is "Domestic Violence Awareness" month has reminded me that I need to. Oh yeah, and my therapist has been telling me to do it for quite some time now. So here goes. I will add a little more to each blog post, so please follow, and share if you wish! :)
"Nobody is gonna tell me there's anything wrong with MY kid." (What he said when I suggested having our first son evaluated because he repeatedly hit himself in the head at the age of 9 months)
"Here, ya want me to do that for you?" (What he said while hitting my son in the head when above action occurred.)
"Shut up, you fucking little punk brat" (What he said when he slammed my son into the wall and hit him in the face.)
"When I get back I'll kick your fucking ass right here in front of your kids, and the neighbors, and I don't care who sees" (What he said before he took my car and went to the store for cigarettes.)
"You ever touch my son again like that and you'll never see me or them again," (What I said the last time I saw him,)
"You ever touch my son again like that and you'll never see me or them again," (What I said the last time I saw him,)
Noah was four, and Daniel was two. I was married to this man for 4 years, and lived with this almost every day. Me, Miss Independent, was in an abusive marriage. The one who, in the past, had advised many a friend in the same situation: "Just leave."
Sounds easy, right? Of course, it's very simple. And we stay because "We like it." At least that's what I've heard. There is a lot of ignorance floating around out there about domestic violence. The biggest piece is that "just leaving" is easy. Stay tuned, follow my blog and read the rest of my story. What you read here might surprise you. What you share may save a life. :)
Sounds easy, right? Of course, it's very simple. And we stay because "We like it." At least that's what I've heard. There is a lot of ignorance floating around out there about domestic violence. The biggest piece is that "just leaving" is easy. Stay tuned, follow my blog and read the rest of my story. What you read here might surprise you. What you share may save a life. :)
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