There was a nice snowfall this morning—Winter has arrived. I never minded this time of the year even though I didn't like to commute in it. I love to ski. I loved to bake, cook and decorate for the holidays. I wake up each day now knowing that is all gone and not knowing what to do. My home is gone. It overwhelms me. I have no home. I am homeless. It was the most important consideration for me and I have no home to go to now. The threats at the end of my marriage were all about making it so I couldn't do anything, which is pretty much what the courts and lawyers did here. I was never allowed a divorce attorney so there was no consideration pertaining to any questions about my future. The judge throughout the proceedings laughed and joked about how much control my ex-husband had and often reprimanded me whenever I explained I was made homeless and denied money my ex and I save together but turns out he was just banking for himself.
I was put on the street with nothing and after all the properties we had together was told none of them were mine. I was told viciously from the start that I had to go to a homeless shelter or go "walk the streets." Most of the time I sat shocked and unable to talk. The brutal way the divorce was done left me unable to put my thoughts together. The shock was not a mental illness that I was accused of, but the violent way I was being treated and attacked repeatedly as cops kept showing up called by people I haven't seen in over 20yrs after I first got married, making one excuse after another not to visit. "You kept all his friends away," a vicious lie repeatedly told to me by one of the cop's mothers involved from the start. Her viciousness resounding in my head continuously now as I remembered all the times she was so cruel and I had no idea why. I tried to be kind to my ex's friend constantly but was always shunned and made fun of in some sick way, but I never knew until recently how vile and vicious and dangerous it would get.
It's hard to write today. I try to stand up, but I get so dizzy that I have to sit down. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. My thoughts feel stunted instead of flowing. The more I go through what went on the more I'm retraumatized which makes it hard to try and figure out what to do. I spent the weekend resting not knowing at first what it was. Living with family again is taking its toll. I have not seen my family in 20yrs since I was first married and it's been difficult. I saw them briefly last Summer and it didn't go well. I didn't have a place to go after I was jailed for resisting arrest and had to come home. I didn't resist arrest, but like everything else in this nightmare, the lies just continue. I know part of the reason to lock me up was to take the journals I had written for 20 years. I wrote all the time. I wrote first thing in the morning and often late into the night. I wrote all weekend if the abuse was bad. I struggled for years to figure out why no one wanted to be my friend, why no one visited, why no one came for holidays even though I asked all the time.
The panic and anxiety started pretty swiftly this weekend. I have been trying to get work the past 2 months, but have received no offers even after a few interviews. There are professional jobs I could apply for and that I qualify for, but without a car, I can't. I have applied for most of the local jobs here but just like in years past I was never given a job here locally. I know some of this has been deliberate. Coercive control has had its ugly grips in just about every part of my life. When I first started reading about it I cried. It was what I had suffered all these years. That and economic abuse kept me continually thinking that we were so poor and I needed to constantly make more money. I was constantly made to feel not good enough because I came from a poor family. I worked all the time and basically was a DIY housewife. I cooked from scratch, kept a garden and pantry, groomed the dog, and often cut and did my own hair. I sewed, baked, and made all the decorations for our home.
I tried to sit down over the weekend to write, but the words wouldn't come. The pain at times unbearable as the memories come flooding back. The police often pounding at the doors. Neighbors complaining about things even though I had never talked to or ever been introduced to them. My dog and I moved a total of 18 times now trying to find a safe place, but each place had problems. It was all done on purpose. I was told numerous times to "leave the city." I was told to "get out" repeatedly. We often had no heat, we were often sick and weak from having no food and I was often a nervous wreck because the police came constantly and accused me of all kinds of things. Fighting with the neighbors, being suicidal, and drinking were their favorites. I was continuously trying to understand what was going on. I had no real record before all this started. I had a DWAI way back when I was about 27. My ex-husband left me one night in a bar. My offense was I wanted to stay out and dance a little longer. I loved to dance and he wanted to go home. I learned early on not to cross him. I followed someone else home after having a little too much to drink and that person got pulled over for speeding. I turned my car around and went back. I was young and felt guilty. The officer was respectful and wondered why I had turned myself in.
"What were you thinking," my ex said later, shaking his head in that contemptuous way I would eventually come to know often. The way that made me feel stupid and ashamed. My new boyfriend from a good family was bailing me out of jail, but eventually had more DWI's than I could count as I started thinking about his "criminal history." The new boyfriend that would eventually be my husband of 20 years and have me put on the street and call me a "prostitute." At the time I blamed myself. I never looked at the reason why I was left that night in the bar. Why he just up and left because I wanted to dance a little longer. Such a simple request. It wasn't that late and I had often done things he wanted to do. I was to become the designated driver for the next 20 years mostly because I felt so guilty about being arrested. Looking back it was set up from the start to get me in trouble. Over the years he grew more and more resentful of my success and my ability to overcome obstacles so many of which he orchestrated, especially with regards to my career. Things always seemed to go wrong. People always had problems with me he would say—no matter what I did it wasn't good enough.
Before I met my ex-husband, I had never really been in trouble before. I tried to stay as far away from the police I could. To the point of almost being phobic. Being poor it was always assumed I would be in trouble or end up on welfare. I always did well in school, but it was never really acknowledged because poor kids aren't smart. I was often told that I thought I was so smart as in "you think you're so smart!" I never really understood why I could not want to be smart. It's taken me a long time to see that the stereotypes started when I was a kid and have never let up. Much of the violence exploding recently in my life was because welfare kids are not to grow up and be successful. Certainly not be semi-retired at 50 and own your own home.
It's hard to write today. I try to stand up, but I get so dizzy that I have to sit down. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. My thoughts feel stunted instead of flowing. The more I go through what went on the more I'm retraumatized which makes it hard to try and figure out what to do. I spent the weekend resting not knowing at first what it was. Living with family again is taking its toll. I have not seen my family in 20yrs since I was first married and it's been difficult. I saw them briefly last Summer and it didn't go well. I didn't have a place to go after I was jailed for resisting arrest and had to come home. I didn't resist arrest, but like everything else in this nightmare, the lies just continue. I know part of the reason to lock me up was to take the journals I had written for 20 years. I wrote all the time. I wrote first thing in the morning and often late into the night. I wrote all weekend if the abuse was bad. I struggled for years to figure out why no one wanted to be my friend, why no one visited, why no one came for holidays even though I asked all the time.
The panic and anxiety started pretty swiftly this weekend. I have been trying to get work the past 2 months, but have received no offers even after a few interviews. There are professional jobs I could apply for and that I qualify for, but without a car, I can't. I have applied for most of the local jobs here but just like in years past I was never given a job here locally. I know some of this has been deliberate. Coercive control has had its ugly grips in just about every part of my life. When I first started reading about it I cried. It was what I had suffered all these years. That and economic abuse kept me continually thinking that we were so poor and I needed to constantly make more money. I was constantly made to feel not good enough because I came from a poor family. I worked all the time and basically was a DIY housewife. I cooked from scratch, kept a garden and pantry, groomed the dog, and often cut and did my own hair. I sewed, baked, and made all the decorations for our home.
I tried to sit down over the weekend to write, but the words wouldn't come. The pain at times unbearable as the memories come flooding back. The police often pounding at the doors. Neighbors complaining about things even though I had never talked to or ever been introduced to them. My dog and I moved a total of 18 times now trying to find a safe place, but each place had problems. It was all done on purpose. I was told numerous times to "leave the city." I was told to "get out" repeatedly. We often had no heat, we were often sick and weak from having no food and I was often a nervous wreck because the police came constantly and accused me of all kinds of things. Fighting with the neighbors, being suicidal, and drinking were their favorites. I was continuously trying to understand what was going on. I had no real record before all this started. I had a DWAI way back when I was about 27. My ex-husband left me one night in a bar. My offense was I wanted to stay out and dance a little longer. I loved to dance and he wanted to go home. I learned early on not to cross him. I followed someone else home after having a little too much to drink and that person got pulled over for speeding. I turned my car around and went back. I was young and felt guilty. The officer was respectful and wondered why I had turned myself in.
"What were you thinking," my ex said later, shaking his head in that contemptuous way I would eventually come to know often. The way that made me feel stupid and ashamed. My new boyfriend from a good family was bailing me out of jail, but eventually had more DWI's than I could count as I started thinking about his "criminal history." The new boyfriend that would eventually be my husband of 20 years and have me put on the street and call me a "prostitute." At the time I blamed myself. I never looked at the reason why I was left that night in the bar. Why he just up and left because I wanted to dance a little longer. Such a simple request. It wasn't that late and I had often done things he wanted to do. I was to become the designated driver for the next 20 years mostly because I felt so guilty about being arrested. Looking back it was set up from the start to get me in trouble. Over the years he grew more and more resentful of my success and my ability to overcome obstacles so many of which he orchestrated, especially with regards to my career. Things always seemed to go wrong. People always had problems with me he would say—no matter what I did it wasn't good enough.
Before I met my ex-husband, I had never really been in trouble before. I tried to stay as far away from the police I could. To the point of almost being phobic. Being poor it was always assumed I would be in trouble or end up on welfare. I always did well in school, but it was never really acknowledged because poor kids aren't smart. I was often told that I thought I was so smart as in "you think you're so smart!" I never really understood why I could not want to be smart. It's taken me a long time to see that the stereotypes started when I was a kid and have never let up. Much of the violence exploding recently in my life was because welfare kids are not to grow up and be successful. Certainly not be semi-retired at 50 and own your own home.
It was a running joke for cops to tell me "they were retiring too," then snicker and laugh. I eventually figured out it was because my ex and I agreed to retire early and he did right after we divorced, but I'm being forced to start over with no car, no place to live, no portfolios, which is death kneel to working artists. I worked very hard and lived very frugally to retire and have my own studio and work a retail job. I always liked retail and did well, working for Macy's after college. I knew the Art jobs I got might not last into midlife, Graphic Design can often be a young person's career. Computer skills get faster and faster and programs get newer and newer, plus I always wanted an Art studio since I went to Art School. I had wanted to apply for grants but had no place to live to wait for them to come through. I had to pay rent and my food and needed a paying job so I switched my course load from Fine Arts primarily to Photography. I knew there were still jobs available in commercial film labs and photograohy.
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