Rhonda J Flanagan

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Posted by Rhonda J Flanagan on November 30, 2010

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The Lies Unravel

The days go by in a blur. The rain is beating against the roof, it's comforting. Spring came quietly last week. I miss having my garden. Getting seeds in the mail, planning the different flowers, vegetables, and herbs I will grow for the season. But like everything else, my ex-husband hated my garden. Reminded me each time he cut the lawn, one of the few things he did that helped me, that he hated all the shrubs in his way. "I'll eat anything," he would say when I learned to grow fresh tomatoes, basil, and thyme I used in my sauce. Finally feeling good about teaching myself to cook and enjoying how fresh and good everything tasted. I was told continually growing up how horrible cooking was, but I came to really enjoy it and gardening made it especially nice. It will be 8 months here in my mother's garage as April starts. I don't go out anymore, not only because of the Pandemic but because the hoovering was intense and so many of my things went missing. Latel

Beginning Again

Beginning Again I left the psych ward shocked and still traumatized, but determined to get my life back. I didn't know that a group of people could wish you ill and scheme to have you locked away. A fitting theme for Halloween, but like everything else lately things were getting even crazier. "A group of people can get together and declare you incompetent," my half-brother quipped when he showed up at the police station—I hadn't seen him in 20 years. I really hadn't seen any of my family my entire marriage. All of them refused to visit and I was surprised he was there. It had been my first court date after my husband had me violently arrested. I was still in shock and had no idea this was to be the first of many arrests and forced times into a psych ward—for so-called "evaluations" while they all claimed I was "crazy." My half-brother being one of them. A beautiful Fall day and I had already missed so much dealing with the court, moving a

Networks of Evil—Still Confined in the Garage

Be the good girl, the good wife. Always be nice, be kind, explain, be a doormat—be a lady. Accidents happen, natural disasters happen, things happen, but this wasn't one of those. This was all planned down to the smallest of details. Everyday part of the ongoing nightmare. Forcing myself to get up, knowing I have to live this hell all these people have forced me into. A hell I didn't create, a hell created for me—deliberately. This is who I have to be now—this is who they tell me I am. I even have a whole write up from the psych ward with their psychiatrists to tell me that my life was all a delusion. "They have a couple of psychiatrists," my mother contemptuously told me the night I went to talk to her before my ex-husband had me arrested the first time. She has since denied saying that, but I had no idea until recently what she was talking about. After I left her house, my ex-husband went on a rageful tirade telling me how "nothing was mine," everyth

In The Cellar Again

I awaken to the pungent smell of the cellar. Strong, moldy and damp. My nose starts to hurt. I instinctively try to wipe my nose, but remember we're not suppose to touch our faces. I itch my head instead. My hair hasn't been washed in a month. It feels awful. I wonder if it will fall out. I think about being a girl and how I couldn't wash my hair only once a week. Being here so many memories come rushing back, so much the same, so much planned once again. Only this time is different. This time I know, this time I can finally face it all armed with the truth. It's gotten next to impossible to go into the house now. I'm basically confined to the room in the garage. It smells like old, rusty cars—exhaust and engine oil. I had been going into the house about once a week to shower, get tap water to wash with and to empty the small bucket I use to toilet in, but even these things were getting to be a problem. Getting my packages, mail and other questions about essential

Eating Peanut Butter From The Jar

My peanut butter jar is just about empty. Peanut butter is one of those staples that will get you through any disaster I found. After being made homeless here numerous times, I have even lived on it for weeks at a time when I was unable to go to the store or walk. After my car was taken it was hard to get groceries. In many places here there are no cabs or if there happens to be one it can be unaffordable. I have barely enough money for groceries and my phone now. Spending $50 on a cab was extremely difficult, but oftentimes I was forced to. The small alimony I'm getting was made to seem like a big gesture from my ex-husband, but like most things, these decisions were made when I wasn't in court and were made to seem like he was the victim so nothing was done in my best interest. It's enough to barely cover food and my phone and with today's prices and not being able to cook or keep a pantry or shop on sale it becomes difficult. Besides the constant worry each month th

She Kept Calling Me Mary Magdalene

"Your Mary Magdalene!" she screamed. "You're trying to kill me!" We can no longer be roommates. I need a new one and with that Kathy was out the door and on her way to tell everyone that she wanted me out of the room. I could hear her in the hallway, by now a common occurrence as she told whoever would listen to her what was going on. She had a habit of doing this, but this time she was frightening me because she seemed to really believe that I wanted to kill her. I knew it was time to talk to someone in charge or a TA, short for Therapy Aide. I didn't have to wait too long. "Checks" were done every 15 minutes and it wasn't long before they were checking the room. When you first arrive they are done every 10 minutes, all day long and all night long. I was having a hard time sleeping and still trying to get used to the constant noise here. The jail was so much quieter. I had never slept so well until jail. It had been so long since I had slep

All I Want For Christmas

Homeless Market Street, Amsterdam NY Played in the background as I sat w my tea n bagel at my favorite writing place—Panera Bread. I do more eating than writing, but I like to think of writers like Patti Smith sitting in her favorite cafe writing. It gives me comfort n helps keep me focused. I read Just Kids in Jail, I don’t think I would have made it through wo her book. Some parts were difficult, their life wasn’t easy in NYC, but it reminded me of my modest success. I avoided the “Starving Artist” years mostly. I had worked in the Corporate sector n had done very well, so well in fact I was set to retire at 50, w a freelance business I had just started n loved, but life had other plans—in reverse! I would live the starving artist part now I thought. I’ve been procrastinating writing. I get a little more nervous because it’s harder to write this way then to pour out my feelings on a page. I would write 1-2 pages long-hand every morning b4 work. I loved that kind of writing n ha

Smear Campaign

Homeless~Old Vacant Good Will Store Awake at 3am, after loud noise from Semi-trucks continues all night long. I have been rough sleeping in front of the old vacant “Good Will” store for the past month; still looking for housing n jobs, still trying to live my life, but my savings is gone now n rejections r constant from jobs. Sheriffs have been here numerous times w the same refrain; “I don’t know u, I just came on shift, did u go to Social Services?” It’s been the same thing since this started. I know now they never had any intention of helping me. The whole point was to keep arresting me, evicting me, to make me look incompetent, crazy—a “Crackwhore.” They never had any intention of helping me. It’s been demoralizing finally understanding this, for so long I was in shock each time explaining I never did what they were accusing me of, but it made no difference—arrests kept coming for nonsense or things I never did on top of the evictions that depleted my savings—just about all were

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