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Woke up soaking wet, hearing what seemed like Trees falling; cracking, breaking—ominous. I peeled out of the mummy bag to see everything covered in snow. I had been checking the weather, but thought it just snow flurries. No, it was a full blown snow storm. The pines bending almost to the ground, the wind howling; everything white, the sun just coming up. I had wanted to sleep today, hoping for another sunny day, but I was wet, cold, n damp—time to move. The ground covering I had soaked through n my inexpensive tarp would have to dry before another use. It was only water-resistant n not waterproof. I loved going to Panera Bread n thought of the warm tea n bagel I could have, but I was also tired.
It had been n awful Easter, probably my worst so far. I was finally at a place I could grieve everything n it was intense. The most grieving I had ever done, going back to when my parents divorced n my life was ripped apart. Gone was my beloved Lake; Summers spent w my Dad, watching him sing in his band, running in n out of my Aunt n Uncles large mansion on The Great Sacandaga Lake. My hair long; honey-colored highlights, wavy, flowing behind me. My skin bronze, I was happy—loved the outdoors. Loved my family n my dad. Everything changed once my mother left him, accusing him of Domestic Violence a year after they married. By then she was pregnant w my 1/2 brother n we went to live w her new boyfriend. The Summers on the Lake gone, my hair all chopped off replaced w horrible hairdos she told me looked like Shirley Temple, I didn’t know who she was n I didn’t want to b her—I wanted to b me. I would spend my school years having my hair pulled, constantly in tiny pin clips to make tight what I thought were old lady curls. I was often to wear these curlers in public; humiliated. School was the worse; my hair a constant source of contention once she left my father along w so much else in my life. The arguments she had w my grandmother became constant over my clothes. My grandmother bought me beautiful clothes that my mother constantly accused her of favoring me. I look back now at all the lies, the humiliations, the losses—all deliberate. I had been for sale since I was born. Even writing this makes me feel queasy; wanting to throw up.
My pretty new apricot sweatshirt was already dirty, my nails black; it doesn’t take long when ur rough sleeping to look dirty. Things u take for granted become so difficult it’s as if u live in a different universe than others. Until u do it, u have no idea how difficult it is. I had no idea about people that had no place to live before all this started. As a child we moved often, I had spent my childhood scared to death. I thought as n adult, I would never experience this again; the laws had changed surely, n I had made it a point throughout my marriage to let my new husband know that owning a home was one of the most important goals I had. Determined as a child to overcome the horribleness I grew up w. I had no stability once my mother was divorced. She regarded me as a problem she was determined to get rid of, it was my grandmother that took care of me. I went w her most weekends for years. The war between my mother n her new boyfriend n my grandmother n my family started as soon as we moved to the city.
I had no idea that the new friends my mother had would all know she didn’t want me. My father, me, n my grandmother were blamed continuously about my mothers new life. I was the one put on “Welfare,” not her, not her new family. I was often told that I was not “Blood,” n to get out. The “door swings both ways,” her reply whenever I asked or needed something, which I stopped doing very young. School offered no peace either. I was always in a separate line for “Welfare kids,” the problem was there weren’t any except me mostly. My classmates learned early to taunt me, spurned on by Teachers that gave tacit approval. I was Welfare after all—unclean, dirty. The slut-shaming started young, but it was couched in terms like divorce. My parents were divorced, which made me dirty. Because my father was blamed, I was also to blame for ruining my mothers life, n it was always about sex.
I saw the clouds roll in before Easter, a premonition, a storm coming after one of my ex-husband’s friends—another woman just about shoved me in Target. This was becoming regular again—just like High school. I had been tormented each grade; called out, threatened to b beatup. I had changed school numerous times because we moved so often n it was always the same; the new kid, but I was to find it went a lot deeper, much more sinister.
This woman was older, wore daisy-dukes in high school, work boots, her hair blond in the Stevie Nicks curls everyone loved.She bragged about these “daisy-dukes.” I remember seeing her w some of my classmates, she would talk about their violence; all the boys loved her. She would “kick in bathroom stall doors to beat girls up.” I remember being one of those girls picked on in the bathroom. What was it w these people n bathrooms? I was slowly finding out. I knew of her from High school, but didn’t know her. I didn’t think much of their relationship when first meeting her before all this started. “Old friends,” I had thought. A weekend “Ring of Fire,” on the Lake—parties all weekend to celebrate the end of Summer. She did a lot of coke, sneering about the weed I mentioned, but other than that I didn’t drink or do drugs. My ex had talked about buying some weed when we retired. I had been so picked on about not “partying,” that I thought a little weed would b ok to celebrate.
Her ex husband n mine involved in a “Violent Felony,” when young. I didn’t know these people or much of the facts; the stories got more sinister as time went by. When I finally understood at the end some of the violence; I almost puked. My ex calling these people by nicknames I didn’t know. When I finally met them at the end of my very isolated marriage, I was shocked so many I went to High school w. My ex husband had been stalking me w these people n my cousin all along—Judges ignoring all of this! In the same way, my mothers years of stealing; including a pool ladder she told me she paid for but didn’t. “Walk out,” here’s the receipt. I had accidentally locked the keys in the car; I had just started driving. They kept the keys over the visor, but I was taught in Drivers Ed to take them n lock all the doors. The manager followed us out. “The charges dropped,” my mother told me, but as I sat in front of Judge Aison all these years later; he called me amongst other condescending things a “Juvenile Delinquent!”
Just try some, ur cousin smokes now. My cousin n best friend in the front seat laughing. I was 14yrs old, these guys were in their 20’s. My best friend pregnant by the time I was 15yrs old, when she was 16, was always hanging around older men. I remember when she was 12 n I was 11, telling me she was seeing a guy from the Jehovah Witness Kingdom Hall that was 21. I took a puff, it was ok. I had to wanted not to do drugs, wait to b married to have sex, n had been into my new Bible study w her 1/2 sister. God loves u they told me. Someone loved me, I thought? besides my grandmother—I was hooked. I loved God too. I was afraid my mother would kill my grandmother for loving me. I didn’t feel loved at all; mostly terrified of my mother. I was not allowed to wash my hair at this point. Mostly about once a week, n even then she was often in the bathroom complaining about me washing; there were never locks on the doors. I hated the lack of privacy thinking of so much of her abuse in the bathroom lately. I haven’t had my nice bathrooms in 4yrs. Having a private bathroom a big deal for me from the start of my marriage.
I spent the weekend sobbing, the grief so old, going back all those years ago. The anger finally had a reason other than making my stomach hurt; the pain so intense before I was thrown out by my ex-husband, I had to lie down whenever I ate. By then his violence so bad, I had suggested I move back to our 20yr home. We had been looking to place his mentally ill Aunt in Assisted Living. We had been taking care of her over 20yrs in her home, but she was growing increasingly forgetful. They said she had Dementia now n took her off the Lithium she had been taking since a young woman. Her psychologist Dr Ninan suggested she talk about her problems at this point, but she refused. She had lost her hair as a young woman, her then husband the story went was a criminal; rough, crude type. I had no idea because the shame surrounding her illness prevented any real talk. Jokes about “being crazy,” were often said, n I had been included in these if I said too much.
She would have extreme “spells,” of mania n depression; chatting uncontrollably then collapse into a morose depression that was awful. I had the blues on occasion, but this was awful—way worse. I felt so sorry for her, n she knew how to play up the sympathy n manipulate me. I was to care for her n my MIL in exchange for their homes n the “rental income,” from my MIL’s 2-family, but they both had no plans for me to have anything. I had been purchased to b their slave—maid.
It seems crazy to write this, but this Aunt was mentally ill, so her delusion I was her servant made sense. She would often have “spells,” railing about crosses the last time she was taken to St Marys Hospital. There weren’t enough of them in all the rooms n they weren’t big enough. I think of all my journals; I wrote for 20yrs prolific. I would love to add what I wrote about that time she was admitted, but they stole them all to make me look like it was me that was crazy. My mother had even threatened that they had “a couple psychologists.” I thought it was another of her outrageous threats, but horribly learned that courts were actually protecting her now. Protecting the violence she had subjected me to since I was a child. On top of that covering up the financial decisions this mentally ill Aunt of my ex was making. Decisions that would put my life in horrible danger, while I was being denied any agency.
The journals chronicling all these fights that at the time were called misunderstandings. I was always accused of “not getting along!” I would write 10, sometimes 12 pages, long-hand up to our Lakehouse about what was going on. I had no idea then it was all deliberate, all planned—chaos. The chaos, that in fact is controlled, ritualized, setup; until what seems like a setup becomes chaos as ur life spirals out of control; like swimming on a calm day only to b pulled under by a rip tide or possibly a boating accident.
Your leg accidentally attached to a rope, tied to a buoy that is in the shape of a cross attached to a block of cement, pulling u over, under, to the bottom—drowning. The cross draped w what looks like that Christmas plaid blouse u bought all those years ago to wear to the first Christmas party at ur new boyfriends brother n SIL. I sat remembering the blouse as I looked at the buoy sitting against my in-laws house—“For Sale,” the sign on the lawn read. My God, I thought, I hadn’t even known they were moving. I felt punched in the gut unable to breath. “Don’t u want to go for a boat ride?” I heard my ex saying growing so agitated I thought he was going to hit me. Rough me up, I thought, knowing now what that body language would look like. His strong arms at 6’4 looking like they were shaking in violence contained seemingly going to do harm. No, I’m not going w them. I had been bullied out of the new School District job n knew my Special Ed SIL was involved, but like so much else she would accuse over the years “it was all in my head,” whenever I tried to question her.
“If u came to my house late at night, I would bury u in the lake,” the detective barked at me, then telling me, “Trump was going to take u out,” that I was crazy, n stalking, harassing my husbands best friends son—a cop. I was in shock. Yes, I tried to talk to him considering his parents like family. Threats about my car being taken, my ex-husband refusing to speak to me, a seizure from a Sexual Assault I had hoped was n accident, n the ongoing trauma of being denied my homes, housing n answers from anyone I knew. I was accused of “harassing him,” he said n was given n “order of protection,” writing up what appeared to b a dissertation of how crazy I was. My car was taken n I sat being told I would b “put away.” Dr Ninan appearing at St Marys to tell me I changed jobs frequently, didn’t see my mother—had no friends, was delusional about who I was. I had been told repeatedly over the years that I changed jobs too many times, didn’t see my mother—had no friends.
I felt like this freak storm, the cracking thank God not a tree going to fall on me, but the ice moving n heaving the old Pines. The woods dense, quiet, but alive—shifting. I thought of the Robins I saw everywhere lately—plump, happy, rested, from a bitter cold, but mild Winter in terms of snow. Now shivering somewhere like me. I was achy from memories colliding between so many decades of lies going back so long. My memories like a large file cabinet that needed to b updated, but I had to move slow, like the large card catalogs at the Library’s I loved including ours before it became what was a daycare center—all the books gone. The new director living in my MIL home, I was being told to get help from her about work. “Get help from her?” WTF I thought. She was living in MY rental. Judge Lorman glaring at me telling me I was “incompetent,” unable to comprehend, “nothing belonged to me,” n I needed to go to a homeless shelter. My life had become surreal n it was not from a “psychotic break,” which they were accusing me of. The freak storm had only just started, it had been simmering for decades. The chaos that seemed random, “she fell apart at 50yrs old,” my ex wrote on the psych-ward papers, had in fact been planned all along.
“Your Schizophrenic,” the psychologist intoned, expressionless. Schizophrenic? I said, that’s absurd. I started saying what I had done in a desperate attempt to keep from what seemed to feel like drowning. I was a professional, had a career, vacation property. Well, that’s a delusion, ur “High functioning,” he went on undeterred. I felt overwhelmed, had no idea what Schizophrenia was n felt ambushed. “U need medication,” he said for ur psychotic delusions. No, I said I don’t. U might not b able to leave if u don’t cooperate. We can’t have that can we? I was desperate to leave thinking this was all a mistake, but the longer I stayed the worse it would be. My new roommate on the same cocktail of drugs I was told I needed, but refused. Making connections between things that don’t have similarities is one aspect of Schizophrenia—how brilliant, I thought. An elaborate con that seems so crazy, of course it could seem Schizophrenic—perfect coverup.
My SIL came to mind. I could see her writing down all these “problems,” about me from the beginning. “Why don’t u see ur mother?” ur family? was constant. Watching me, turning everything I did into a diagnosis just like watching children from a two-way mirror her profession did to label children as young as 2yrs old w Schizophrenia to b put on strong psychotropic drugs before their brains have even developed, I read. Dr Ninan really didn’t care if the mentally ill “talked,” it was changing all this Aunts meds that caused her extreme problems. She could no longer think clearly, had continual stomach problems, n got worse rapidly. She complained bitterly about being taken off the Lithium for the cocktail of drugs they replaced it w.
I looked up Special Education finally after knowing my SIL close to 30yrs, sick by the “Lesson Plans,” I read. Pages of “behaviors,” I can only describe as abusive, especially concerning small children. I thought of myself as a child before women like her. I probably would not have made it—medicated unfairly like so many. Normal behaviors deemed abnormal. Now I’m Schizophrenic? These filthy women r out of control along w these Doctors that align themselves w this type of abuse. I was determined to once again prove them wrong, but first all the grief of a little girl that had nothing wrong w her, but the false accusations of a mother herself addicted to drugs. The freak storm a metaphor for my life. A weekend spent grieving such old hatred like the old Pines n old woods I was now in.
The horse she put me up on at 4yrs old, no reins. I was terrified; there was nothing to hang on to. This would b the metaphor of her treatment towards me. I had no idea my phobia from “being picked up” in the air had to do w that beautiful horse so long ago. I loved horses, but he was so big, I was so little. It was the reins that were missing; my mother laughing hysterically as was often the case when she would do things to me for fun, but were violently frightening. I thought it was because I was tall, had gained weight from the often precarious way she often forced me to eat that made me not want to b picked up in the air. No one ever did, until the man that Sexually Assaulted me did. My body going dead weight after he effortlessly swept me off my feet. I had told myself since a girl I was too heavy to b picked up. I never let anyone, even my 6’4 230lb ex husband pick me up.
I remembered her sadistic fun even then so long ago; she didn’t mean it of course. I was not talked to like a human being—children r objects. Children r incapable of knowing anything. I would often b shocked as a child the ways I would know things, n yet b treated as if I was somehow unable to have any ability to know. I watched my mother recently parent her great-grandchild horrified at the way she was raising him. I babysat him 2 months he never cried once. Our rhythms in sync, he was n angel baby that I knew would probably need to b to survive her abuse. One time he screamed so bad, I cried out repeatedly asking if he was ok, it was late, they had just gotten home after one of her “Western Square Dances.” Dances, I was increasing becoming suspect about as I started to see the extreme way she was now living.
She used to b dirty, remember Rhonda? My 1/2 sister told me after they released me from the Psych-ward—she’s now filthy. I shuddered, I hadn’t seen her in over 20yrs. She had picked numerous fights n had thrown me out right before my ex-husband showed up. I didn’t know they had all been friends from so long ago when we first moved in w her new boyfriend. I was molested that Summer by my new cousin. It would start the constant stalking I endured up until his death. His life plagued by Sexual violence, Porn n Heroin addiction. He had tried to do well, travelled internationally for GE, but was often kicked down. He was “Low Class,” my ex informed me at the end—who cares! I was overwhelmed w pain, struggling to understand his increasing violence. If he was low-class what was I? I was family. It would take me some time to put the pieces together, but I was getting closer.
I felt like a wolf in the woods; howling, wounded—alone. I had traveled so far back in time to retrieve memories from so long ago. Shamans talk of Soul retrieval; sorting, putting in the missing pieces—breathing out the pain. Breathing in the strong Warrior; what might had been had I known the truth. The trauma released. Reframing the memories to empower myself. I thought of the horses here—Sanford Farms. I was slowly researching the history, fascinated that I wanted to recently take riding lessons n horses again were in my life. I had thought as much as I loved them something was holding me back. I know now it was that first experience from so long ago. I didn’t have to fear them, I started reading about Sexual Violence w elite Horse farms n thought of my experience w another friend that had horses, but picked a big fight humiliating me in front of her coworkers about my wedding. I had asked her to b in my wedding, but she caused so many problems, I finally asked her about not being in it; maybe it was better. She lectured me over the phone from her workplace on speaker. She had treated me as someone not able to ride or b involved w horses. My grandmothers family “Hughes,” also owned horses, but the family was split apart—I was not welcome. Wealthy, haughty; I was told by them also I wasn’t good enough.
Today I think I would like to try being on a horse again. I’ve read there is something about horses n Domestic Violence victims. I think of this beautiful farm being left to rot; falling down, broken, sad like me. I think of the Champions that were here. People like me being told we r in the barn rather than owning them. I loved National Velvet as a girl; seeing the movie on the big screen at our beautiful movie theatre. The comfortable, velvet seats, the marble staircase to the bathrooms w the ornate iron railing; all so lavish. Sometimes we need to revisit our past; saving what is cherished after a freak storm—so much lost. Our memories often all we have left as we age. “Wild horses” by The Rolling Stones, a favorite; someday we will ride again.
Namaste~dear readers
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