Not For Sale–Staying In A Small Room In The Garage
This post has been deleted a couple of times now. The thing is when you don't have the language for something it takes on a kind of other reality. You're not sure of the words because there just aren't any and you struggle to find them. In the same way when someone covertly controls your reality. You just don't have the words as to why things seem off. You can't really name things. Naming them gives them a reality, a language we can share. I can convey it to you and you can understand why things never seemed to make sense. Without the words, it can be hard to put things together and to know the truth. It can be hard to describe it in a context that makes sense. Telling our stories, telling a story allows us to do that. We must have the words to do that. The power to convey those words that define the truth and give it the context to explain what is happening to us and what has happened to us. Without those words, it can be daunting to understand. It becomes easy for others to deceive and manipulate us. To convince us what we know isn't really happening because we don't have the knowledge or the words to explain it. To confront it or tell someone how wrong it is–to fight back. We can't define our reality or our story. It isn't talked about. We have no words for what is happening to us. It then becomes like it's not really happening. We're accused of making things up, imagining things–being crazy!
I keep circling through my memories now. I have to go through so many now in light of knowing the truth. I had 20 years of journals, which would have made it so much easier, but along with all of my other personal belongings, they were taken. They were actually stolen–all done on purpose. The threats came pretty rapidly once the police violently removed me from my home right before the divorce started. I was told numerous times my belongings they put in a storage unit would be auctioned off. This, of course, included my writing. The threats about my writing were constant at the end of my marriage. It was confusing then, but I know now why. They were proof of all the years that so often I could not explain what was happening to me and was told continually that it was my fault. That there was just "something wrong with you." Because it happened with so many people how could I defend myself? How could so many people be involved? That's what made it always so difficult–"everyone can't be wrong!" I continually blamed myself and was blamed. I would go over and over conversations, comments and petty fights that started as soon as we married that just didn't make sense. I would scrutinize my behavior all the time. Trying harder each time to "get along." Getting along was often what I was accused of not doing. Everyone we knew stopped visiting, but it was spread out far enough it did not seem like they acted together, but they did–they so horribly did. I was blamed for all of it. Every disagreement, every misunderstanding, every inability to get along.
I wrote constantly to make sense of this horrible kind of abuse. To make sense of so many people who were seemingly involved in our life, we had so many that seemed to be friends, and yet incredulous whenever I attempted to ask them why they weren't visiting or why things usually went wrong. To make sense of the way I knew I behaved or talked–what I had done compared to what so many were saying I had actually done. Things never seemed to be what I thought had happened. I would be told, often weeks later that what I thought had happened really didn't. Things were "explained" later and I was told what people really thought about a particular incident. Of course, if I questioned it, those same people would then agree with the version that was made up and not the one I had actual experienced. I have learned this is what the term gaslighting means. I had no word for it all those years ago. I wrote to make sense of these conflicting realities. The fractures I lived with for close to 30yrs. Today I finally have the truth. Yes, they were all acting together. Yes, they all did prescribe to acting and treating me in a certain way–away that blamed, shunned, and isolated me. A way that now I realize is so abusive I am still trying to find the words to explain it.
Unable to secure stable housing after I was arrested out of my home and put on the street, my things stayed in storage for the past 3yrs. My things were put in storage and I was told I was being divorced. I learned all of this on the police report after I had been arrested. Recently, all was supposedly "auctioned off." I was told I had a certain amount of time to get my things, but then like other things relating to the divorce it was all just done without explanation. At the end of the divorce, I was jailed. I had repeatedly asked for Appeals, but jailing me prevented that from happening. Before being jailed, I was forced to move 10 times. The stalking, noise harassment, allegations, and abuse continued every place I tried to rent. I'm learning words to help name this kind of abuse too. Rural abuse, mobbing, gang-stalking. This kind of abuse encompasses the isolation that happens in small communities where most people know each other and the abuse can be ignored–turned a blind eye too. Some deliberately engaged in it because there was no oversight. Done by a group of people whether knowingly or unknowingly. Towns, villages and cities so small you can hide and no one really looks too closely. Landlords that gave me no heat and when I complained did all sorts of devious things to have me arrested and evicted. Taking my money, stealing my things and harassing me until I left.
I wrote first thing in the morning before work. I wrote late into the night. I wrote every day. I had too, it was one of the ways I survived. I wrote all weekend if the abuse was bad. I wrote when the abuse kept me so tired all I could do was go to work, take care of my dog and keep the house. The fatigue could be intense at times. I rarely got sleep after I married, after never having had a problem before. Finding out recently that sleep deprivation is one of the ways to keep people controlled. My writing over the years became more and more a target. I didn't understand why, but today I do. Today I know all the writing added up to my story. The writing would be proof of what I had lived rather than the horrible cover-up that I barely survived. Rather than the death threats, I would endure to keep the secrets and lies hidden. The horrible secrets over 30yrs.
Hurrying back in from the cold after using the bathroom in the main house and back to my little room in the garage, I think back to being up to the lake. We did not have the water on when we stayed at our lake home in the Winter, so we would sometimes go outside before setting up a makeshift porta potty. We also had one on our boat for years. I have always been an outdoors type of person, so using outhouses weren't a problem. Winter is on the way and it won't be fun to go out in the snow to use the bathroom in the main house, but I'm grateful for a place to stay. Staying with my mother was not the ideal option, but we both got to a point of allowing it to be. I was desperate after having everything in my life violently taken from me. She gave it in spite of her objections. I have so often lately been at a loss to describe what exactly those objections are. I struggle each day to make sense of it all, but slowly the pieces are coming together. Slowly I'm putting together what happened to me and how this was all put together.
At seventeen I left home and never really lived home again. As I put the pieces together, I make a place for the truth. Sifting and sorting the lies out. I think of not so long ago, a cold Sunday like today would find me baking. I loved to bake–sifting flour, adding ingredients, putting the recipe altogether. It's what I'm doing now, only I'm not making blueberry muffins. Sifting, reflecting, sorting the truth from the lies. My memories and the truth from all the gossip and rumors that were told. The truth of what I experienced rather than what the group agreed was the truth–regardless of what had actually happened. Writing my truth once again. Writing to survive the lies that threaten to drown me, to keep me quiet–to prevent me from living my life. To have me locked up and accused of being "crazy" because it's easier for others than telling the truth. The threats continue, but they have right along.
I miss all my cookbooks. I had so many books. At midlife I was finally happy with the small library I had collected, thrifted and bought. It took a while, books are expensive. They were such a comfort when times were difficult. A reference when I needed help–like old friends. You love them unconditionally in good times and bad–they are there for you. They are all gone now, more of what has been stolen and destroyed. All done on purpose. Another huge loss that I will not be able to replace. Along with original art, graphic design and my writing. It's devastating. It was also evidence. Today I know that and why they all so desperately wanted them stolen from me. Why my writing became such a "problem!"
I think of putting some different shoes on, my feet are cold, but I don't have any. I long for my shoes, but all are gone now too. The brutal way this was all done still leaves me dizzy. It still seems surreal. Like one of those rides you get off of at the fair and you need a few minutes to get yourself together from the queasy feeling in your stomach and the thrill. Like one of those fun houses. This has been like that. Being on some kind of thrill ride, but after I calmed down and the shock went away I realized in horror–what had been done to my life. It's like Alice down the rabbit hole and waking up and finding your life is gone. It's not in the usual sense of a divorce. Many of those involved would wax poetic about how all divorces are hard, or I did this to myself or even it was justified. Of course, all of them sympathized with the abuse, having been a part of it from the start. Most of them threatening arrest and quite a few were able to carry that out.
Looking back there were times I had trouble at jobs and couldn't explain those either. We live in a rural area so it wasn't hard to cause trouble for me at work. There aren't many jobs for Artists here. I was often a target because I went to college. Being poor and wanting and then actually attending college is seen as "thinking I was something," as in "you think you're so smart!" I did well in college. I loved school. I never studied and could have done better, but I had other things I needed to work on. Having freedom and living was one of those things. I was used to doing so many chores and being so mature, I wanted to explore, have fun and not be so grown-up. My childhood was difficult. The usual circumstances when you grow up poor, with no father and a mother overwhelmed by her own circumstances. I took it in stride for years until my divorce. It seems old ghosts have to be reckoned with regardless of how much time goes by. People I have not seen since first married have come around to weigh in on what went on. The same ones who lured me home and set me up with my ex-husband after a successful decade away. I have tried to leave a few times now, but that's the thing with this kind of abuse. There are always the threats, "there's the door, don't let it hit you in the ass," to get rid of you and make you leave while simultaneously setting it up so you're deceived into staying or in my case now forced into staying. All the while telling you how much you should leave, but doing everything so you are forced to stay.
This, of course, is part of the crazy way you're supposed to feel–never really sure. No, they want me around and are just kidding. No, they didn't mean it. No, they really do care and just had a bad day. No, you just continually misunderstand. Of course, they go out of their way to be so nice after the dig is lobbed at you initially. They were tired or in a hurry or just part of the false reality that is created when words become normalized and don't have the weight of feeling attached to them. Discussing feelings isn't often done. The reality of feelings that aren't attached to words. In this way, they are often just words that can be ignored with sayings like I never said that! That's not what I said! "Your too sensitive." Of course, it's because the feelings attached to whatever was said is never really made clear. It can be just about anything after the fact when it's questioned, which becomes part of the deception. Creating a false reality where you never really know the truth. Which is it? Do you want me to leave or stay? If you want me to leave why do you do everything to make me stay? Things that I have now learned have taken years to set up, threaded with passive-aggressiveness.
Like being lured home. It seemed innocent at the time. "Come home!" we can have fun, go to the beach and visit. You can relax from all that working, be with family. "Stop being so selfish!" Having children was seen as far more important and I was often the brunt of jokes about not really doing anything all that important–the "party girl." As the abuse grew worse over time, this teasing gave way to crueler overt names like "Drunk Slut." The slut-shaming growing worse over the years the more successful I became. College was seen as a waste of time. I was often told stories of people who were "book smart," but had no common sense and ended up flipping burgers. I didn't know my job ended because of the trouble this group had caused–so I came home. Shortly after I found myself homeless. At the time, of course, it was one of those manufactured disagreements that didn't make sense but was explained away by everyone as no big deal. Life goes on, "it's all in the past," "you make a big deal out of everything." I loved my job and was good at it. I was managing a Photo Studio after college and had recently been promoted to managing a number of them. I loved photography. I was assisting the District Manager and on my way to running a district myself. I was traveling and had even worked for a time in other states managing other districts to see if I wanted to move. I was very confused as to really why it ended. A reorganization of the district by a new manager and I was told I had to fire a long term employee who did nothing wrong. I could not fire the person. She ended up leaving and I decided I probably should also. Things were being so poorly managed. Plus this new manager was related to people back home and at the time it bothered me, but I didn't know why. I know now it was done on purpose. So many things making more sense now.
When I decided to leave and return home I had no idea that this group who had already been stalking me would continue for the next 30yrs. A group that included some family and my future husband. A group of friends that included a cousin that had molested me as a child, continued to stalk me as a teenager and unbeknownst to me cause continuous trouble behind my back. A group that was also friends with this new manager who was causing trouble. At the time words like "For Sale" were about things and products–merchandise. The photos I was selling in my studio. I was good at sales. My photo packages always sold. I had no idea that "I" could actually be for sale also. That "people" can be for sale. I knew words like prostitution, but that in no way was to prepare me for the horror of learning what I really meant to certain people here. People I loved and cared about. People that were friends. People I trusted. People I was later to learn who only saw me as a product, an object–woman for sale. People who were looking around for more revenue after selling and using drugs for many years. Some were even people who pretended to be family. After all these years I know they were never family, but criminals from the start.
I know today that I'm not for sale. I can sell my work, my services and my time. My being, my body, my self, my soul are not for sale. I am not an object! I did not have those words 30yrs ago nor would I even think I had to use them. I did some conscious raising in college. I took some women's studies, classes. I saw work as a way out of poverty and I was grateful. I learned a little about Patriarchy, but I was ill-prepared for the deception that was moving around my life and setting me up in a horrible way. Today, 30yrs later, I have to make it clear that I am not an object. Today I have to be very clear about these words. Today after everything in my life has been violently destroyed or taken–I have to speak out. I have to tell my story–separate the truth from the lies. We all have to do this. This horrible crime threatens all of us. We have to back up our words with action and teach children to know that Human beings are not for sale! Human beings are not objects. I am not an object. I am not for sale!
This post has been deleted a couple of times now. The thing is when you don't have the language for something it takes on a kind of other reality. You're not sure of the words because there just aren't any and you struggle to find them. In the same way when someone covertly controls your reality. You just don't have the words as to why things seem off. You can't really name things. Naming them gives them a reality, a language we can share. I can convey it to you and you can understand why things never seemed to make sense. Without the words, it can be hard to put things together and to know the truth. It can be hard to describe it in a context that makes sense. Telling our stories, telling a story allows us to do that. We must have the words to do that. The power to convey those words that define the truth and give it the context to explain what is happening to us and what has happened to us. Without those words, it can be daunting to understand. It becomes easy for others to deceive and manipulate us. To convince us what we know isn't really happening because we don't have the knowledge or the words to explain it. To confront it or tell someone how wrong it is–to fight back. We can't define our reality or our story. It isn't talked about. We have no words for what is happening to us. It then becomes like it's not really happening. We're accused of making things up, imagining things–being crazy!
I keep circling through my memories now. I have to go through so many now in light of knowing the truth. I had 20 years of journals, which would have made it so much easier, but along with all of my other personal belongings, they were taken. They were actually stolen–all done on purpose. The threats came pretty rapidly once the police violently removed me from my home right before the divorce started. I was told numerous times my belongings they put in a storage unit would be auctioned off. This, of course, included my writing. The threats about my writing were constant at the end of my marriage. It was confusing then, but I know now why. They were proof of all the years that so often I could not explain what was happening to me and was told continually that it was my fault. That there was just "something wrong with you." Because it happened with so many people how could I defend myself? How could so many people be involved? That's what made it always so difficult–"everyone can't be wrong!" I continually blamed myself and was blamed. I would go over and over conversations, comments and petty fights that started as soon as we married that just didn't make sense. I would scrutinize my behavior all the time. Trying harder each time to "get along." Getting along was often what I was accused of not doing. Everyone we knew stopped visiting, but it was spread out far enough it did not seem like they acted together, but they did–they so horribly did. I was blamed for all of it. Every disagreement, every misunderstanding, every inability to get along.
I wrote constantly to make sense of this horrible kind of abuse. To make sense of so many people who were seemingly involved in our life, we had so many that seemed to be friends, and yet incredulous whenever I attempted to ask them why they weren't visiting or why things usually went wrong. To make sense of the way I knew I behaved or talked–what I had done compared to what so many were saying I had actually done. Things never seemed to be what I thought had happened. I would be told, often weeks later that what I thought had happened really didn't. Things were "explained" later and I was told what people really thought about a particular incident. Of course, if I questioned it, those same people would then agree with the version that was made up and not the one I had actual experienced. I have learned this is what the term gaslighting means. I had no word for it all those years ago. I wrote to make sense of these conflicting realities. The fractures I lived with for close to 30yrs. Today I finally have the truth. Yes, they were all acting together. Yes, they all did prescribe to acting and treating me in a certain way–away that blamed, shunned, and isolated me. A way that now I realize is so abusive I am still trying to find the words to explain it.
Unable to secure stable housing after I was arrested out of my home and put on the street, my things stayed in storage for the past 3yrs. My things were put in storage and I was told I was being divorced. I learned all of this on the police report after I had been arrested. Recently, all was supposedly "auctioned off." I was told I had a certain amount of time to get my things, but then like other things relating to the divorce it was all just done without explanation. At the end of the divorce, I was jailed. I had repeatedly asked for Appeals, but jailing me prevented that from happening. Before being jailed, I was forced to move 10 times. The stalking, noise harassment, allegations, and abuse continued every place I tried to rent. I'm learning words to help name this kind of abuse too. Rural abuse, mobbing, gang-stalking. This kind of abuse encompasses the isolation that happens in small communities where most people know each other and the abuse can be ignored–turned a blind eye too. Some deliberately engaged in it because there was no oversight. Done by a group of people whether knowingly or unknowingly. Towns, villages and cities so small you can hide and no one really looks too closely. Landlords that gave me no heat and when I complained did all sorts of devious things to have me arrested and evicted. Taking my money, stealing my things and harassing me until I left.
I wrote first thing in the morning before work. I wrote late into the night. I wrote every day. I had too, it was one of the ways I survived. I wrote all weekend if the abuse was bad. I wrote when the abuse kept me so tired all I could do was go to work, take care of my dog and keep the house. The fatigue could be intense at times. I rarely got sleep after I married, after never having had a problem before. Finding out recently that sleep deprivation is one of the ways to keep people controlled. My writing over the years became more and more a target. I didn't understand why, but today I do. Today I know all the writing added up to my story. The writing would be proof of what I had lived rather than the horrible cover-up that I barely survived. Rather than the death threats, I would endure to keep the secrets and lies hidden. The horrible secrets over 30yrs.
Hurrying back in from the cold after using the bathroom in the main house and back to my little room in the garage, I think back to being up to the lake. We did not have the water on when we stayed at our lake home in the Winter, so we would sometimes go outside before setting up a makeshift porta potty. We also had one on our boat for years. I have always been an outdoors type of person, so using outhouses weren't a problem. Winter is on the way and it won't be fun to go out in the snow to use the bathroom in the main house, but I'm grateful for a place to stay. Staying with my mother was not the ideal option, but we both got to a point of allowing it to be. I was desperate after having everything in my life violently taken from me. She gave it in spite of her objections. I have so often lately been at a loss to describe what exactly those objections are. I struggle each day to make sense of it all, but slowly the pieces are coming together. Slowly I'm putting together what happened to me and how this was all put together.
At seventeen I left home and never really lived home again. As I put the pieces together, I make a place for the truth. Sifting and sorting the lies out. I think of not so long ago, a cold Sunday like today would find me baking. I loved to bake–sifting flour, adding ingredients, putting the recipe altogether. It's what I'm doing now, only I'm not making blueberry muffins. Sifting, reflecting, sorting the truth from the lies. My memories and the truth from all the gossip and rumors that were told. The truth of what I experienced rather than what the group agreed was the truth–regardless of what had actually happened. Writing my truth once again. Writing to survive the lies that threaten to drown me, to keep me quiet–to prevent me from living my life. To have me locked up and accused of being "crazy" because it's easier for others than telling the truth. The threats continue, but they have right along.
I miss all my cookbooks. I had so many books. At midlife I was finally happy with the small library I had collected, thrifted and bought. It took a while, books are expensive. They were such a comfort when times were difficult. A reference when I needed help–like old friends. You love them unconditionally in good times and bad–they are there for you. They are all gone now, more of what has been stolen and destroyed. All done on purpose. Another huge loss that I will not be able to replace. Along with original art, graphic design and my writing. It's devastating. It was also evidence. Today I know that and why they all so desperately wanted them stolen from me. Why my writing became such a "problem!"
I think of putting some different shoes on, my feet are cold, but I don't have any. I long for my shoes, but all are gone now too. The brutal way this was all done still leaves me dizzy. It still seems surreal. Like one of those rides you get off of at the fair and you need a few minutes to get yourself together from the queasy feeling in your stomach and the thrill. Like one of those fun houses. This has been like that. Being on some kind of thrill ride, but after I calmed down and the shock went away I realized in horror–what had been done to my life. It's like Alice down the rabbit hole and waking up and finding your life is gone. It's not in the usual sense of a divorce. Many of those involved would wax poetic about how all divorces are hard, or I did this to myself or even it was justified. Of course, all of them sympathized with the abuse, having been a part of it from the start. Most of them threatening arrest and quite a few were able to carry that out.
Looking back there were times I had trouble at jobs and couldn't explain those either. We live in a rural area so it wasn't hard to cause trouble for me at work. There aren't many jobs for Artists here. I was often a target because I went to college. Being poor and wanting and then actually attending college is seen as "thinking I was something," as in "you think you're so smart!" I did well in college. I loved school. I never studied and could have done better, but I had other things I needed to work on. Having freedom and living was one of those things. I was used to doing so many chores and being so mature, I wanted to explore, have fun and not be so grown-up. My childhood was difficult. The usual circumstances when you grow up poor, with no father and a mother overwhelmed by her own circumstances. I took it in stride for years until my divorce. It seems old ghosts have to be reckoned with regardless of how much time goes by. People I have not seen since first married have come around to weigh in on what went on. The same ones who lured me home and set me up with my ex-husband after a successful decade away. I have tried to leave a few times now, but that's the thing with this kind of abuse. There are always the threats, "there's the door, don't let it hit you in the ass," to get rid of you and make you leave while simultaneously setting it up so you're deceived into staying or in my case now forced into staying. All the while telling you how much you should leave, but doing everything so you are forced to stay.
This, of course, is part of the crazy way you're supposed to feel–never really sure. No, they want me around and are just kidding. No, they didn't mean it. No, they really do care and just had a bad day. No, you just continually misunderstand. Of course, they go out of their way to be so nice after the dig is lobbed at you initially. They were tired or in a hurry or just part of the false reality that is created when words become normalized and don't have the weight of feeling attached to them. Discussing feelings isn't often done. The reality of feelings that aren't attached to words. In this way, they are often just words that can be ignored with sayings like I never said that! That's not what I said! "Your too sensitive." Of course, it's because the feelings attached to whatever was said is never really made clear. It can be just about anything after the fact when it's questioned, which becomes part of the deception. Creating a false reality where you never really know the truth. Which is it? Do you want me to leave or stay? If you want me to leave why do you do everything to make me stay? Things that I have now learned have taken years to set up, threaded with passive-aggressiveness.
Like being lured home. It seemed innocent at the time. "Come home!" we can have fun, go to the beach and visit. You can relax from all that working, be with family. "Stop being so selfish!" Having children was seen as far more important and I was often the brunt of jokes about not really doing anything all that important–the "party girl." As the abuse grew worse over time, this teasing gave way to crueler overt names like "Drunk Slut." The slut-shaming growing worse over the years the more successful I became. College was seen as a waste of time. I was often told stories of people who were "book smart," but had no common sense and ended up flipping burgers. I didn't know my job ended because of the trouble this group had caused–so I came home. Shortly after I found myself homeless. At the time, of course, it was one of those manufactured disagreements that didn't make sense but was explained away by everyone as no big deal. Life goes on, "it's all in the past," "you make a big deal out of everything." I loved my job and was good at it. I was managing a Photo Studio after college and had recently been promoted to managing a number of them. I loved photography. I was assisting the District Manager and on my way to running a district myself. I was traveling and had even worked for a time in other states managing other districts to see if I wanted to move. I was very confused as to really why it ended. A reorganization of the district by a new manager and I was told I had to fire a long term employee who did nothing wrong. I could not fire the person. She ended up leaving and I decided I probably should also. Things were being so poorly managed. Plus this new manager was related to people back home and at the time it bothered me, but I didn't know why. I know now it was done on purpose. So many things making more sense now.
When I decided to leave and return home I had no idea that this group who had already been stalking me would continue for the next 30yrs. A group that included some family and my future husband. A group of friends that included a cousin that had molested me as a child, continued to stalk me as a teenager and unbeknownst to me cause continuous trouble behind my back. A group that was also friends with this new manager who was causing trouble. At the time words like "For Sale" were about things and products–merchandise. The photos I was selling in my studio. I was good at sales. My photo packages always sold. I had no idea that "I" could actually be for sale also. That "people" can be for sale. I knew words like prostitution, but that in no way was to prepare me for the horror of learning what I really meant to certain people here. People I loved and cared about. People that were friends. People I trusted. People I was later to learn who only saw me as a product, an object–woman for sale. People who were looking around for more revenue after selling and using drugs for many years. Some were even people who pretended to be family. After all these years I know they were never family, but criminals from the start.
I know today that I'm not for sale. I can sell my work, my services and my time. My being, my body, my self, my soul are not for sale. I am not an object! I did not have those words 30yrs ago nor would I even think I had to use them. I did some conscious raising in college. I took some women's studies, classes. I saw work as a way out of poverty and I was grateful. I learned a little about Patriarchy, but I was ill-prepared for the deception that was moving around my life and setting me up in a horrible way. Today, 30yrs later, I have to make it clear that I am not an object. Today I have to be very clear about these words. Today after everything in my life has been violently destroyed or taken–I have to speak out. I have to tell my story–separate the truth from the lies. We all have to do this. This horrible crime threatens all of us. We have to back up our words with action and teach children to know that Human beings are not for sale! Human beings are not objects. I am not an object. I am not for sale!
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