Part VII: I See Dead People
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
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