The new suitcase was so nice, a gift to myself after so many years now of dealing with the Post Separation Abuse I was forced to endure. I was finally able to shop at my favorite store. I had gotten so many things there over the years on sale. Beautiful high-end things I had collected over the years for my business and things I saved for retirement, but now were all gone. I'm learning a name for this kind of abuse that doesn't stop, it continues. My ex told me it would, it would be "unrelenting" and I would "have no way out this time," he said. I didn't know it at the time but he and his friends had also caused trouble at so many jobs I had, but each time I was able to be resourceful, learn new skills and get a better job—I see now that this enraged him. Gaslighting and insinuations I was crazy had started shortly after we married. I had no idea it would explode in the violence I was now enduring continually.
It had been a while to shop after all my personal belongings in storage were stolen. Shopping for a long time was triggering and I really had no money to really shop anyway. I had been devastated and watched in disbelief and shock as people told me how this would go. Right from the start the vicious "AdLitem" they appointed told me my stuff would all be "auctioned off!" I see now she was another person that was part of this criminal network that was set up to make sure I could not defend or fight for my right to rightful assets from my divorce right from the start. I was told this is how it's done to "force me on the street," to be a "homeless Prostitute." I was told this from the beginning, cops laughed and joked about it, my own mother told me to "go walk the streets," and women at the jail who also seemed to know my business started fights and told me no one cared about me or my dog and that I was crazy for talking about being forced on the street or about Sex Trafficking. If I had been a Prostitute then that made my ex a Pimp. I wrote grievances at the Jail about this, but they were all ignored.
I really liked Maine, but the stalking, abuse, and police violence followed me there too. I flew back paying $40.00 to bring home the Samsonite and things I bought in Maine. I went to Maine to try moving on with my life and start over, but it was just another trap I was lured into thinking I would be safe only to have another person pretend they had no idea about me, but proceed to do the same sort of things I was enduring at home; calling the cops, calling me a whore and evicting me. It had happened so many times now that I was once again brokenhearted that things didn't work out. I bought silly things for a new place to live; like a nice comforter, linens, some bric a brac thinking I would be allowed to move on. I say "allowed" now because now that I have a name for this kind of abuse I know that the control continues. After all these years, I'm learning a name for this kind of horrible control—Coercive Control and it doesn't usually stop on its own. I had no idea when married, I knew something was so wrong as the years went by, but because my ex didn't hit me I struggled to understand why everything I did was so wrong. Why I was always to blame and things always seemed not to work out. Things would go missing, things would get broken, people would start fights for no reason.
The young woman opened the door to the apartment building and there was my new suitcase dirty, broken, and empty except for my new wine glass, which was busted. Bentley's little toy I still carried and a few other smaller items like the new bowl I bought. Bentley was my little dog and I was still having a hard time letting go of him, especially after the way in which they told me he would suffer—as a "bait dog." I had no idea what a bait dog was until looking that up too. Guards at the jail told me there was really "no such thing." I was to horribly learn this was not true. I kept his little toy having a hard time letting go of it. Most of his other things were stolen when they took him from me after they jailed me. I wrote grievances at the jail and did a 12-day hunger strike to get information about him they were denying me, but it was all ignored and they pretended I had "mental health issues and wouldn't eat." They had a filthy excuse to cover up every horrible thing they did to me.
She seemed friendly, said she was homeless too and just got arrested for "Panhandling." Said my stuff had been thrown down the stairs and she had tripped over the suitcase. I had met her after invited over to have a drink when I first started sleeping on the porch of the abandoned house I was at. They seemed nice, but I had no idea what was going on. I had been out walking and had left the 2 suitcases on the abandoned porch I was sleeping on and now they were gone. When I started asking about them I was told they were next door. "They had been left there," I was told after all the stuff was taken. I got my one suitcase back, but the other one lay at the bottom of the steps and she was saying she had no idea what happened. She had been trying to rent a room there and the landlord told her no one would be renting rooms. I was told I could "rent a room," but I never had any intention of renting another room from anyone after what happened to me in Maine. I told one guy that when he asked me a couple of times. I wasn't sure who was really living there, but smoking a little weed, having a drink, and hanging out was all I had wanted to do. I didn't want a man, a room, or anything else. I certainly didn't want to be a Prostitute, which I was getting vibes about from everyone all the time.
"This is a Crack-house," she said, "the lowest of the low," she continued. I had no idea what that had to do with my stuff but she seemed to think it was normal. Things are stolen for crack or just broken and damaged just because. I felt bad, sick, and tired of dealing with this kind of violence happening everywhere I went. I had left the suitcases on the porch, which I know was asking for it, but I had been carrying them with me everywhere and it was getting harder and harder. I had been leaving them for a short time when I went somewhere because I was getting tired. I had now been at the abandoned house for 2 months. I was tired of believing something would change and tired of being forced to believe this was now my life.
I had rented an apartment around the corner on Arnold Ave before I was jailed and it was the same type of house. The slumlord who was friends with my ex and said he worked with him assured me the people upstairs would be evicted because there was "constant noise," but like everything else, it was all a lie to evict me, steal my stuff and basically rip me off and make me look like I was the trouble. I had been beaten, robbed, and then Jailed one night after they continually called the cops. Then left with a $600.00 National Grid bill when I wasn't even there, stolen cable equipment I had to pay for, and just about all of what was left of some of my personal items stolen. I had bought about 5 coffee makers since this started and numerous dishes because everywhere I rented they would steal my stuff or damage it then evict me—this had been like the 18th time I had been thrown out and or evicted. Sometimes I would just flee because of the violence.
The noise was constant as was the talk that they were "gang-bangers" that did crack, but I was the problem. The banging was so bad I worried constantly about Bentley's ears, he was in pain and was constantly rubbing his head on the blankets and losing his hair. He would whimper at night when it got so bad. I know it had to be really making his ears hurt. I was having trouble too because of lack of sleep. The banging went on all night long and it does something to you after a while to be subjected to that kind of abuse. Noise was a tactic in Concentration camps and is often used by abusers. It breaks you down after a while. The slumlords that rented it to me kept saying how noisy the people upstairs were, but it seemed a way to also abuse me. Tell me they were going to evict them, but I was the one that was going to be evicted and was. The landlady supposedly knew my 1/2 brother, and again my mother had been involved, but at the time I still didn't know these things were being done on purpose. I still had no idea that making someone's life absolute hell in an apartment to then evict them was something people did, but now I know it's exactly what they do. Having first, last, and security money not given back plus a $200 dog fee I never got back to have my dog there was expensive and then the added cost of all that was stolen plus the bills was a lot of money. I was to see it was reason enough for these kinds of people. It adds up and people do criminal things for a lot less.
I got my suitcase and had to do something about the anger I was feeling. I went back to the abandoned porch and scribbled my sign. "Peacefully Protesting Homelessness Police Brutality." I sat crying thinking about Bentley and tired from the constant abuse in my life, but determined to do something now that I was feeling stronger. It had taken me a while to deal with the seizure I had from being sexually assaulted, being jailed, and forced into a psych ward, which almost killed me, the constant evictions, arrests, and dealing with the brutal divorce. I was also still not only grieving the 20yr marriage but the fact it had been set up from the start by a lot of people I still had no closure with and was continually in sorrow and grief over. I had to deal with all of this in bits and pieces because I was constantly moving, going to court, or dealing with new violence. It just kept happening to make me look like I was a "mentally ill prostitute" that could not live on her own, I was slowly finding out.
My cousin had been struggling with Heroin addiction when he got together with his "friends" to set me up with one of his "best friends." I know today they really aren't best friends, but actually had been business associates. Business associates that helped set up the finances in what would be the complete destruction of the financial portfolio I built up 20yrs in my marriage that was 50/50 but was all given to my ex including numerous properties we both worked on, remodeled, and bought. I found out later in my marriage my ex did more than a "few lines of coke," with my cousin way back when before he stopped seeing him when he got into Heroin. I know today my ex was quite the "coke dealer," and had enjoyed protection all along. I wondered why he always got off on the DWIs he got and seem to be born with a silver spoon as they say. I believed I had a dark cloud over me and he loved to tell me how lucky he was. "Luck of the Irish," he would say. In the beginning, he was sympathetic, but as the years went on he would constantly remark that there must be "something wrong with you to have so many problems all the time!" I didn't know at the time him and his cronies were the cause of so many of the problems I had.
I hoisted the suitcase on the old porch that was falling apart, put a thumb tac in my sign, and sat all day waving to the cars passing by—it felt good. I had been following the "Black Lives Matter" BLM Protests all along and could only repost footage I saw on Twitter. I was stunned and shocked when I first watched the George Floyd video and kept thinking the officer would stop as Floyd said he couldn't breathe, but the horror went on and I struggled to accept I was watching a man being murdered. I was still struggling with my own survival, but now I was more ready to fight back. I had been too sick for so long, not mentally but my physical health was really bad. I learned about Trauma and was stunned how I was so taken advantage of in courts and it was all done on purpose to keep assaulting me and render me unable to defend myself. I wasn't mentally ill, but Trauma and shock can make you unable to process things as quickly as you need to plus I still had to unravel all the lies instead of the horrible story about my life I was being told. It's like being in an accident and people taking advantage of you while you're trying to figure out what happened as you wake up in intensive care. In my case instead of telling me the truth people were making up this outlandish story of who I was, what I had done with my life, and what was going on. These weren't just my family, but professionals at the hospital, judges in court, guards at the jail, and psychologists they set me up with that had no intention of hearing the truth but had already decided to go along with the lies.
I had tried to get various lawyers to help me as the divorce went along, but they all lied, ripped me off, and then laughed in my face about opening the divorce back up. "That will cost thousands of dollars," they laughed, but I know what I had would be worth it. Being homeless is a brutal way to live, especially as an older middle-aged woman. I hadn't showered in 2 months other than sponge baths in various bathrooms in the area and I was often scared and tired from having to walk everywhere. Being in menopause made everything worse and having my car also taken made it extremely difficult to do anything especially in my hometown where transportation is very difficult. We have no buses and taxis can be hit or miss, often miss. They had already left me stranded numerous times. My ex had sneered that I would be in "Menopause and no one would want me." The painful memories came flooding back, sometimes too many at once and I would have to rest. So many things that were said to me at the time didn't make sense, but as things went along they horribly were being forced to become my life.
After the past 4yrs of feeling helpless, it felt good to do something more empowering. Having my sign up, waving at cars, and refusing to accept what they were doing to me was a start. I had watched as those more skilled than me organized, marched, take rubber bullets, and hold the line for all the violence that seemed to be happening all the time now. I was happy to re-post video footage and give credit to these brave souls on the front lines now for so long. I was empowered by the French women protesting Femicide and followed along with them. Women everywhere were protesting the same thing and I was grateful for their fighting spirit. My marriage had been one long abuse and the divorce was another rape of my life. I had let myself believe that being a "good wife," meant sacrificing myself bit by bit until I didn't exist. I was threatened I would be "disappeared" by my ex and his thug friends. I had felt just that, but I was beginning to feel a new sense of myself.
I was dirty, tired and my hair gray from no color. I had gained a good 30lbs after being in good shape for so long, running, going to the gym all the time, but when I looked in the mirror I saw something I hadn't seen in a while—a calm sort of serenity to my face. I sat thinking about it as I thought that if someone heckles me I will feel awful because of the way I look these days—a failure, but there was something else there now too. A new sense of purpose. A new way of being in the world that I hadn't felt in so long. I thought how it's been quite a while now I had not been dealing with the abuse of my ex or his friends. I had not been subjected to his constant demands, denial of my needs and wants and I had been living more and more with the fact that I have value too.
What is it with you my new friend had said? If someone gives you something, take it, he said. I knew he was right. It had been so long since I didn't have to work so hard to be liked, to have to do so many things to be denied one thing for me, to just have fun. We sat in the Park and he laughed. I still didn't trust anyone and it was good I was being more shrewd but I knew he was right. If you want to be treated well you need to learn to let people give to you—this was foreign to me, but I was getting better. I think this is what I'm starting to see in my face. How could I have put up with so much abuse for so long? I thought. I know they say you're used to it from the way you grew up. I'm now officially a cliche, but that's ok. I spent so long feeling sorry for my mother, I never accepted how abusive she was and how similar she and my ex are. Today I know how much I put up with from both of them, but today I'm stronger and holding my sign that says this just is not going to continue, not for me and not for all the others and especially in respect for those that didn't make it. We really are survivors and I'm proud to stand with so many others that are saying we just aren't taking the Domestic Violence, lack of consent, and disrespect anymore. That we count and a home should be a human right.
Of course, they all mostly ignored me, but it didn't matter. I had found my new sense of purpose. The sign was more for me. I felt connected to my new friends online. I felt connected to all those on the front lines fighting for what was right. I felt connected to the Journalists writing and also being arrested and continuing the fight. For the new online video recorders that I followed that weren't working for the major stations but keeping me informed in creating innovative new ways to communicate. I felt empowered and had wished I didn't have so many silly arrests to make me look "crazy," but arrested for getting my home back, or being at a protest event or some other important event to say I stand with those violently harmed like I was being. I stand with those women remembering so many women that don't make it. I stand with women in India, burned, gang-raped, beaten. I stand with the missing Indigenous women—missing and murdered. I stand with all women all over the globe that were saying—ENOUGH!
I watched the one truck go by with the Blue Line flag and I thought how dangerous it can be. I watched people get punched, thrown, and arrested. I was proud to stand with them and proud to be an American in ways I hadn't before. I was proud to be a woman saying no to the abuse in my life. It didn't last long. I ended the night crying again. I was tired, cold, and felt like a failure again in a small town all alone, but I felt a new sense of myself. Someone I hadn't seen since I was 20yrs old. A young woman who wanted to make a life for herself after all the years of growing up with abuse. I watched the beautiful Gloria Steinem march and talk and turn me on to working and providing for myself. That I could overcome the poverty of my youth, the awful stereotypes that said I would be another statistic—generational welfare.
I went to sleep crying for all the years that I put up with so much. I tried repeatedly to figure out what was wrong, but in the end, I have to accept it was what it was. Artists do art and that's what I did. My ex spent our marriage taking all the money I earned and creatively saved. I had become so DIY that the money was adding up so fast I rarely spent anything. I know in some ways I had gotten high off the deprivation and have to be honest about that. I should have gone skiing when he treated himself and got new snowmobiles every other year and went to Canada, but I taught myself to cook. I'm a decent cook today and I found out he was at Strip Clubs in Canada all the time while I was cooking and doing all the snow blowing at home for him and our neighbor. The neighbor had been the Superintendent when I was in school and turned his back to me when I was being thrown on the street. I hadn't realized he had been my Superintendent when I first moved next door to him. It made me angry he watched me all those years fix up my home after all the obstacles growing up and in school, but I also watched the cruel way he treated his wife. I thought of her and felt my sign was for her too.
I fell asleep thinking about the lost years but also determined to keep going. I had felt hopeless. Constantly losing everything was extremely difficult, but now the emptiness that was so frightening was being replaced with something else. For so long I had felt like my guts had been ripped out and I suppose they had been. I dreamed of my sign and the new one I would have to make. The graphics I could do and the things I could make to acknowledge the new path I was on. I felt hopeful again. I had survived another day and life offered some small joy once again in spite of all the pain and loss.
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