Abandoned Main Street — Amsterdam NYI’m wet and cold again, wondering if I will spend the rest of my life this way, as it stands now with all the attacks and cops chasing me around the city maybe it won’t be that long—God is merciful. I get up pack my few things and head out to get some breakfast, still shaken from the day before after a 2hr walk home from our local hospital, St Mary’s, that once again wants to label me “mentally ill,” for being homeless, a result of their false allegations.
“You sleep on streets!” she sneered. What? I thought, after talking to upwards of 6 staff since I got here by police of course, her words stung. I was still in a Hospital gown, after a night spent in the visitors room, no blankets, my hair still wet from a shower, and no sleep after banging all night. The room in the ER adjacent to some kind of work space for staff that made loud noise all night—it was awful.
“I don’t sleep on streets,” I said, humiliated and now getting anxious because I wasn’t dressed and needed to sit down and collect my thoughts. I had just fallen asleep once again only to be awaken, this had gone on all night. I was never given a blanket after numerous promises and I was still chilled. I was given nothing warm to drink and could feel myself getting dizzy. I had eaten breakfast in a haste, it was too much meat, burned, and not very good, but I wasn’t sure as usual when I would eat again. I usually had to rest and allow my food to digest after a meal like that. I learned over years of having an Eating Disorder, it was better to eat light if I was in a stressful situation. I usually ate light when I worked, preferring to eat a larger dinner at night so I could relax, let my food digest, and use the bathroom if I needed to. It had worked since college, as I overcame an Eating Disorder from the abuse I suffered growing up. School was the same, often bullied and taunted as a girl in the bathrooms, which never had a bottom. Girls would literally crawl under or over the dividers to make fun. You could barely take a pee, forget having a bowl movement.
Home was no different, the bathroom a favorite place for my mother to be abusive. If I washed, stayed in there too long or was too quiet. Privacy was always an issue, she made sure to never have locks on doors. I never had privacy, she would barge in my room or the bathroom at any time, raging about something I never did. Mostly just excuses to beat me, slap me around or call me names. Washing was a huge ordeal. I wasn’t allowed to take a bath or wash my hair but once a week regardless of what went on. Sometimes in the Summer I would be like extra sweaty or my hair extra greasy, I would put a little cold water in the sink or tub to do a sponge-bath, but it would enrage her.
The condescending nurse by now lead me to my things. I thought everything had been ok, I had explained myself numerous times, explained I had went to DSS, had gone to Catholic Charities, had worked hard to get an apartment, buy a house, check out rooms; and recently tried buying an Abandoned House.
After constant questions, constant suspicious remarks insinuating this wasn’t the case they came up with a few scenarios, because they said repeatedly “they don’t know what to do.” Why was that my problem? I thought, but knew better than to get too annoyed. Having any kinds of feelings about the way I was being treated would result in some kind of label.
If angry your violent, if sad your depressed and or suicidal! If you talk too much about the abuse, your paranoid! If you go on about the Domestic Violence your still suffering and the stalking that is unrelenting and ongoing, your told you haven’t moved on and that is the problem. If you talk to fast because the whole suspicious way they talk to you produces anxiety on top of the way abusive Cops treat you then you have “Pressured-Speech,” are Delusional and Schizophrenic—you have made this all up, want attention, and tell stories about being Sexually Assaulted. All of this results in continuous questions about medications; what you take, if you have been on anything—why you aren’t?
The “Meds,” are the primary focus regardless of how many times they shake their heads in surprise and then disgust I’m healthy; not on any meds, and don’t want them. The line of questioning will start and then continue a short time later as if I didn’t remember that I was on meds and forgot. By this time staff will usually check back repeatedly to see if I need them, then spend a lot of time talking to other staff to check on why I’m not on meds and they have it on their chart. I’ve had this discussion repeatedly. Why is it on my chart? I’ll ask. “Don’t you want meds?” they will then say. No, I say, I don’t! Well, I’ll have to check. By this time, I know the drill and usually make a smart remark about Pharmaceuticals and that usually gets them off the meds routine for awhile, until the next staff member comes in to question why I was not on meds! I used to go on about doing Yoga, meditating, being Vegetarian, you know—being healthy, but they seemed not to understand that. No one is healthy!
Cops came by repeatedly all weekend after I was told by the “Landlord” of the Abandoned porch I had been sitting on to leave or he would “punch me, throw my things off the porch!” Before then I had been trying to figure out what to do again! What to do next. “Your sleeping here, living here!” I sat incredulous, scared of his violence and shocked he thought I actually wanted to live on his porch? It was filthy, disgusting, so run down with Pigeon droppings that I was worried about Covid. How could he claim to be a landlord? I had been one for 20yrs and the thought of my property ever looking like this was beyond my comprehension, let alone the fact the city was obviously letting him do this.
Each time I stopped by to Photograph, stay there or check to see if there was a “For Sale” sign or some kind of maintenance, I found nothing. I had been Photographing “Abandoned Properties,” there was something sad, forlorn and beautiful about them, like when Summer changes to Fall, the beauty of something dying. I wasn’t sure what it was; dying of Industrial Revolution, Capitalism or just rapid change that left me unable to grasp why things were being destroyed that were still livable. I watched my ex destroying our 20yr home. All those years of hard-work, sacrifice and spending my money in the hopes of retiring there only to find it had all been a Financial scam. He had no plan of retiring with me or allowing me to have it, stay there, or buy him out. His viciousness astounding and still leaves me reeling remembering how new things were deliberately destroyed. It’s called “Dissipation of Assets,” but Judges, Lawyers, and Cops involved with the brutal divorce ignored this preferring to allow him to destroy 20yrs of beautiful home. It sits ugly, rotting, slowly being abandoned as I was told it would be deliberately—condemned, an old hateful revenge I was yet to fully grasp its magnitude and depths of deception.
I had stayed there, as I had next door at a whole slew of other Abandoned apartments, left to rot also, but had no intention of making it some kind of permanent residence like he was yelling about. I had no idea there was a “Landlord,” how could he even claim such a title? Garbage piled up each time I had been here, more damage, more blight, more unsightly, disgusting abandonment of a once nice 2-family brick house on Market Street. A street like all of them here now; broken, abandoned, blighted and left to rot and be condemned!
“They’ll take them down, and I’ll build something really great!” he bragged to the cop he called, repeatedly saying he was going to have me arrested after calling me numerous names, threatening violence, and telling me that my presence was a “smear on the community,” and not his plan to let the properties continue to deteriorate and then have someone demolish them and build something else. I had asked his name, but he refused to give it. I guess having me as a potential renter, client or customer wasn’t considered. He yelled he knew all about me! He had the “facts,” and he was a success! Whatever he was it certainly wasn’t a success! I had been a landlord and providing a home is like a doctor that vows to do no harm. I considered it a very respectable way to care about people and yes, you could make a profit, but you don’t do it just for that. Hearing people like him talk about “Flipping properties,” is disgusting; especially homes, places for people to live.
Flipping should be criminal. It’s usually dishonest, unethical, and destroys communities. It’s the same with Commercial Real-estate, but he was convinced he was a big success and bragged a number of times telling me I was a loser, retard, and stupid! Look at him! he demanded and pointed to his big gas-guzzling SUV he left running as he railed at me repeatedly before storming to the backyard and using his cell, oblivious to all the big, black plastic garbage bags spilling all over the back of the house. Piles of debris, litter, and old carpet laid all around now. The lawn, shrubs, and trees damaged, deformed and looked creepy now. I worried about COVID and what all this environmental degradation was doing to the community and me personally, but he was undeterred in his vitriol.
Most of the Photographs I had taken of Abandoned Houses around the city were stolen by cops when they stole my first iPhone 7. I loved that iPhone and had started Photographing the lovely way these neighborhoods were falling apart, but was becoming horrified when it was obvious it was no longer Art, but some kind of destruction, not just old neighborhoods dying after the Housing Collapse, which by now was 10yrs ago!
I was violently thrown out of our Lakehouse one dark night and was heartbroken that among other things I could no longer photograph the Sacandaga Lake NY. I had been photographing the lake over 20yrs, but all of my work viciously stolen when cops dumped my stuff in storage after putting me on the street, stealing my license and Debit-card, resulting in the storage unit “Auctioned off,” the owner hissed at me.
I wrote him a letter pleading with him that I had my business in there and over 20yrs of Graphic Design, Art and Photography Portfolios; plus 20yrs of writing and Journals, but he laughed viciously after I was finally able to call him after my Debit-card was denied repeatedly when I was Jailed after robbed and beaten-up. “That stuff was gone a long time ago,” he chuckled knowingly.
I sensed the horribleness engulfing me, remembering my ex always watching shows like, Storage Wars, and others like that. I found those shows upsetting and sad. He threatened me repeatedly my belongings would be auctioned -off! as did the vicious Ad-Litem Judges forced on me after they accused me of being “agitated” and cops calling me crazy! I found the shows awful. It showed these people making all this money off others misfortune. It didn’t talk of the sorrow and loss of being a person that lost all your valuable belongings, many more sentimental to the owners than the buyers, it angered me in ways I was yet to learn.
I rounded the corner where the Nurses station was, following the Nurse that told me I could get my Backpack, thinking I could at least charge my iPhone and get dressed; it was lunch anyway and they were still deciding what to do, while simultaneously telling me there was nothing they could do. My heart sank as she pointed, there’s your stuff. It was dumped in to what looked like a large shower. My sleeping bag on the floor. I thought of the shower I was just in and started to get upset. I had asked about a shower if I could, but it was another ordeal, until finally it was decided I could, but they had no soap, shampoo, or tooth paste and tooth brush. The nurse that took my urine sample offered me her bar of soap she brought from home “to wash her hands with,” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and seeing my things dumped there was too much.
The toilet had been backed-up, water ran all over the floor as I tried to wash and the Nurse told me to be careful, she put large blankets on the floor to mop it all up. It was dirty and meant for Handicapped people. I could barely stand and shower, it was meant to sit down, but I didn’t want to sit on the wooden seat. I needed to stand and let the water run over me. I love water! I didn’t feel clean sitting like that and was disappointed thinking I can’t be fussy when I’m older it must be hard to have to sit and shower. I hadn’t had a shower for 2 weeks! There was no dryer and my hair takes forever to dry, plus washing it with soap didn’t feel all that clean. I knew it would still be wet in the morning and I was getting even more nervous about the uncleanliness and Covid.
One Nurse offered to bring me a Turkey sandwich, but then another came by and said there was no food. A young man across the way had asked for something to eat and was told the same. She later came by with a brownie, not what I wanted, but I knew better than to complain. I once again sensed the hostility that has been there right along since this started. My niece flying to Europe with the CEO, many Nurses my ex knew worked there, and I had 1/2 family that did; one a nurse married to the cousin that molested me, another a cousin of theirs, a Doctor that was involved and had made threats that I was crazy and I would be locked up, her husband threatened when I called her. All involved when this nightmare started to cover it all up. A planned attack and destruction of my life—10yrs later they continue! Nothing has changed even though many changes are taking place with regard to Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault, and other types of Violence Against Women.
What the fuck? I finally swore, at my wits-end with their abuse and disregard. My stuff is just thrown in here? Where is my backpack? The floor was filthy and the Covid rise in UpState NY was now making my anxiety worse, as I looked at where my stuff was. A little boy had just been admitted with “Symptoms.” I knew it’s what they wanted—for me to lose my temper and then to say I had issues or needed to be “taken down,” their violence when you disagree with their abuse! I saw people do nothing and be encircled with Security, taking them down—it’s harrowing.
The first time I saw it, it scared me, which is what it’s meant to do. To be a “Good Patient,” you don’t question them! I took out my iPhone to record, but it wouldn’t work, I felt in danger again. Security rounded the corner. “Is there a problem?” My God I thought this is fucking unreal they keep doing this. Now I knew why I couldn’t even have some shampoo. “I’m not even dressed,” I cried knowing they were doing this deliberately again, scared of what would happen next. Cops, usually circling you in the same way—5-6 around you like a gang attack.
“Your dressed,” he commanded. “You can wait outside!” Outside? I thought, outside? I could feel myself starting to cry, my head-spinning, the lack of sleep making me feel like the room was moving, remembering all the other times this kind of abuse went on—cruelty for no reason, no compassion or understanding. I’m not dressed, I said again, but knowing it was pointless. I walked out wearing only the Hospital gown, my boots and hoodie I was able to grab and hurriedly put on. I knew then it was to make me look like I had some kind of episode and needed to be restrained, especially being outside in a hospital gown. I could not believe what they were doing now. I sat on the bench by the back Emergency exit feeling like I would pass out from no sleep and needing to be warm. I thought of when I passed out at the Psych-ward, falling slowly to the ground after what seemed like being made to stand in line forever. Your always made to wait in lines for long periods of time.
I tried to use my iPhone, but my camera wasn’t working nor was video, nothing would load. I had charge, cellular, and storage—what was going on? How can they do this? I knew they had ways to block me from using my iPhone. Too many odd things with it. I was out there an hour before needing to go to the bathroom and knowing that would really “look crazy,” if I went outside plus I was really cold by now. I’ll just ask to use the restroom I thought, scared now I wouldn’t be let back in. This is ridiculous, I thought! Once again they are playing this sick game. I had read of people just being dumped outside. I know I was transported to Hutchins in Syracuse NY, 3hrs away and not told where I was going, then they threatened to not let me leave or be released to a city I didn’t know. It was as all too much again! How long can they continue to get away with this abuse?
“They were looking for you,” the receptionist said. I said yeah, ok! I don’t know anything, she quipped, yeah, I know, no one ever does here! Can I use the restroom? Over there she said. Finally, I at least could do something human and someone understood. The waiting room full and I wondered about the little boy.
Rhonda! she commanded. Yes, I said, the mean RN that told me there was nothing she could do was standing with Security. “Your stuff is out there as she now pointed outside. Where I said? over there! but I’m not dressed, I pleaded. “We gave you a chance, she sneered, you ruined it. What? I thought, are you serious? what the hell? I went back out the Emergency doors to see my stuff in large plastic bags up against a dirty wall. The food I had strewn in with bags of clothes someone had dropped off, I felt sick. I was grateful people were gifting things, but after all the sabotage I knew some of it was not sincere. I knew the food would have to be thrown away along with more of my things. My new $140 “Mr Big Buddy Heater” was gone and the Propane tanks, my warm gloves too. I thought of all the things stolen now, too many to remember now. I had to figure out how to get out of the Hospital gown. These are the services here, I thought as I left the “Domestic Violence/Sexual Assault” brochure I took from a pile at the Police station on display—dated 2010 in the Hospital bag I was given for my clothes, returning it with the gown after taking it off in the bushes, scared they would charge me with indecent exposure because they were so determined to make me appear unstable—that’s what was crazy, I thought, not me!
Do people even read the stuff they put out? or is it just PR? I could not believe what these people continued to do after denying me numerous properties I owned by claiming I was “mentally ill,” now they were acting as if I wanted to “live on the street,” all along. Being Homeless is criminal now, I thought—all planned. The label of “Mentally ill and Homeless,” even more lucrative.
The young man across the way from me, I tried not to listen, but they wouldn’t give him food either, was I thought I heard, Suicidal. I stopped listening when they denied him food, he seemed so thin. Need a ride? he says. He was waiting for a cab. “He’s crazy,” the guy dressed in what appeared to be more Security or another type of Cop helping behind the Fire Trucks that pulled in. Great, I thought, I still needed to change my hospital top, forget putting on a bra. More staff came out telling the young man what he needed to do. I felt sad it became too dangerous to even talk to him at that point.
“Don’t talk to her,” staff had said about me at the Psych-ward, “she makes up Sexual Assaults!” I looked at the guy and knew it was better to keep quiet, their voices commanding. Talking to him wouldn’t be a good idea, even though just like the last time they offered a “cab voucher,” then took it. My iPhone was dead, and I knew it was a long walk back to Market Street to get food and use the restroom. I was thinking we could share a cab, but we were being talked to as children. I knew I better not continue, but asked if he needed some clothes. I had some men’s clothes someone gifted me thinking possibly all Homeless are men, or not professional women not on SSI or disabled. He said no and some man started talking to him. I asked the man about the cab—it’s Medicaid he said, I don’t know anything. What the hell is with people I thought? It’s not all a conspiracy I said. I was going to share a cab is all, but he seemed too suspicious. We’re all criminals now, I thought, as I finished once again packing up my stuff wondering where I was going to sleep.
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