The Light Shifts—Rhonda J Flanagan Photography
Just when I thought I had gotten my eating to a place I could manager for the Winter, the weather changed. I woke up 3am vomiting my cheese sandwich. I also had a few White Claws to take the edge off, but after checking the cheese the next day, I knew it wasn’t right, but I was constantly accused of being a “Drunk,” by my ex n his friends now, so I was concerned. I hadn’t drank since college. I was into healthy living when married n with all the drinking my ex did, I worried about driving. I became the designated driver. I never minded. I liked to dance n he was a good partner. Most guys wouldn’t dance, but as the years went by his drinking became more of a problem. He had numerous DWI’s in-spite of me driving. Today I would say he was alcoholic, but back then, it was one of those things I put up w after I married that I never should have. When we dated, he love bombed me n wasn’t mean or abusive, but after we married it all changed.
It wasn’t too bad, all I had was the cheese sandwich, I was glad to b rid of it. Throwing-up is always a good thing when food isn’t right. I had nursed my ex-husband for years after he would invariably come home after his annual trip to Canada snowmobiling. I like to think now, someone knew what he had been up to n sent him home sick to think about it. Strippers in Canada he visited or someone else. Who knows, I still have questions, but no one is talking that is involved—just attacking. I have no idea what he really did in Canada, I usually did snow blowing the long weekend he was gone for our yard n driveway n the neighbors. We lived on a corner lot, so it wasn’t easy, but back then I loved being a homeowner, grateful to have a nice home. I know now he thought of our 20yr marriage only as Prostitution.
I remember she carried around the book, Helter Skelter, it was the true story of The Manson Murders, a 1974 book by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry according Wikipedia. Bugliosi had served as the prosecutor in the 1970 trial of Charles Manson. I hadn’t seen her since that party on the Lake where she talked me into applying at our School District where she worked for a job. She seemed to know all about the new Graphic Design business I had started, inserting subtle fears about how hard it was to freelance; she had tried, she said, but gave it up. It was dark, but she looked the same since High School; popular, all the guys liked her. She was artsy, pretty, hippy type, but never gave me the time of day. They all hung out at the popular dive bar—The Annex. I never went until I met my ex-husband n then we bought the Lake property n it closed. He was friends w the owners. It made sense she would know my ex-husband considering what I know today, but at the party that night, I had no idea they had been friends all these years.
People from that group were passing away faster then I could process all the changes now that I felt better. I would Google someone n they had passed away, especially since my 40th High School Reunion had been this past Summer. I didn’t want to Google anymore people. I never read Helter Skelter, but now thinking about what was happening—it was disturbing. I hadn’t known how she seemed to know so much about me after all these years. The party had been strange. My ex-husband had grown increasingly abusive n things were being said at this party about men putting their wives on the street. Another classmate from High School was divorcing, she had made some weird comments, but I thought it stress from her own divorce; not that they would know about mine before I did.
My ex-husband had gotten drunk, he was getting drunk all the time now; moving on from his regular Budweiser’s to harder liquor. It was getting exhausting; looking after him, his mother that was blind, n her sister that was mentally ill. I was looking forward to working at home; freelancing n managing all the rentals we now had. His mothers 2-family, was now rental income n was compensation for all the years we took care of her. My SIL had her as a constant babysitter; I was promised her home. I took care of what she needed all the time, while my SIL traveled the world. It had been a lot of work. “It will all pay off,” my ex would say whenever I got tired of her constant demands. I would do as always n calm down, grateful to b doing so well. The success I had worked so hard to have was finally coming to fruition, but none of it was meant to b.
The School District job lasted only a few months before I was bullied out during major flooding in the City. It was n awful experience; dysfunctional, abusive—confusing. I complained to HR, another woman I went to High School w, but she lied, told me not to return. There was no official “Bullying policy,” I was told. I sensed it was all setup, but I had no proof. It was just another job my ex told me that proved I had “problems getting along w people”—keeping jobs. The Network Administrator Director I had been working for could not even do the basic of things on the computer, but was continually telling me that I was the one w problems.
My neighbor brought me to fill out the applications at City Hall. One of my ex husbands best friend, a woman also in my Wedding after so many problems w people backing out, worked w then Mayor Thane. Ms Thane was a friend of my BIL, n admitted alcoholic while in office, attended my MIL’s funeral, but after giving him condolences w a flourish of commotion like she was a celebrity entering the room—ignored me.
I loved my MIL, as difficult n old school as she was, but I had no idea what she really had thought of me. Often haughty, I often took her tantrums as a woman that was now blind, unable to do all the things she used to do. I had no reason her entitlements would extend far deeper than I could ever have imagined. To have had no desire to leave me a thing after 20yrs of what amounted to unrelenting elder care. I wasn’t looking for things or “money-grubbing,” like they would casually remark when I was first married. I had no idea they all had far more than they let on, but I had no idea they would scheme to also take what was rightfully mine; let alone what they rightfully owed me n promised continually.
“Your surrounded by witches,” Dawn had told me at the Psych-ward. She had been diagnosed w Schizophrenia at a young age, alcoholic, but I liked her. She was often very insightful, but other times her illness prevented us from being too friendly. She would get upset telling me I was a spy because there was nothing wrong w me. I was being attacked by witches was all, so I was probably spying on her. Her words about witches n other conversations we had come back to me now—uncannily. The mentally ill treated as if they r their illness rather than as individuals.
I didn’t know much about Manson, but the Cult like way these women followed him mirrored the way these women attacked me n followed my ex-husband. He would often at the end, brag about mind control, as would some of the others involved. “It’s going to b worse for them,” one of the campers I met at Silver Maple Park remarked about what was going on. I had rented a small Apt in the Camping ground for the Summer when they first put me on the street. Cryptic things were being said, but at the time when they were said, I was still piecing things together. Plus the shock would get in the way, as would the brain-fog of Menopause, which my ex had accounted for. Part of the way he would continue to control things, knowing it would make it even harder on me. With numerous Aunts n his mother being older, he was quite familiar w it. “No one will want u after Menopause,” he threatened. At this point he was getting beyond abusive—he was frightening. Mental illness was in his family, things were becoming very strange. He was the one that seemed controlled, under some kind of trance. What happens when a group of people deliberately spend this many years pretending? The “butterfly effect,” in some demonic reverse.
I’m the “Master-player,” he would chant after getting so drunk I worried about his health. He was choking at times, chalking it up to his acid reflex, breathing strangely, laughing—demonic. I had no idea really what demonic was, but if asked, it would b the word I would use. He would repeat things over n over, almost chanting. The doctor he was seeing was having a hard time managing his Glaucoma pressure. I would often ask him if he was telling him the truth about his excessive drinking. I was sure it was making a difference, as was his caffeine use. “Caffeine doesn’t matter,” he would say or he did mention it. He knows, he would say. I didn’t push him, the chances of him being blind was not something I wanted to b blamed for. I was doing as I often did, giving him my opinion, research; allowing him the final word, which he had to have. When I finally researched Caffeine w Glaucoma, it’s not good. I knew instinctively, but he ignored me like he did w so much else.
Six of these women have passed away now—all young. 2 of them related to my ex; one a cousin, another by marriage. Some of them used to meet outside for lunch in the Summer to get high. Stoners that loved Southern Rock, n carried around that book. There was also a Beatles song Helter Skelter that supposedly Manson used as some kind of justification for killing 5 people including actress Sharon Tate.
Cliques r common in High School, but this group seemed to have darker secrets—other connections. I considered them High school classmates; some were also friends from the new neighborhood we moved to, Fort Johnson; w my mothers then new boyfriend, Fred. I know today many had known my ex-husband, my mother, n my 1/2 family when we first moved to Amsterdam NY way back when I was 5yrs old—family. Eerie, Manson calls his followers, “family,” it’s the vibe these people give off, even way back in High School; closeness that was more than just school mates, but I was to only find out recently how close.
A knowing that went back way back when to I was 5yrs old. “They aren’t ur friends,” my mother told me coldly right before my divorce started. “They’re acquaintances,” she went on. I had been talking about neighbors I had played w as a child. Their father n brother; hairdressers. “I’m glad I own my own home,” she quipped. I had just gotten papers for a settlement that I had not even discussed, been asked about, or was I even allowed a divorce lawyer. Everything was being rushed through, as I continually was finding myself wo a place to live; now having no car. Her words were cold, somehow knowing—ominous.
Helter Skelter means, “Chaos.” The shock n trauma was preventing me from putting it all together quicker. The fear was around everything I did, constantly stalking me. I read the theme of Helter Skelter was fear because it was mainly about murder. It was often told from the killers perspective; the fear of the victim. People knew things, said things—laughed disturbingly. It had all been planned from the beginning. I would have nothing, suffer a “psychotic break,”—be dead.
I was sick again from the food poisoning the next day as it slowly made it’s way out of my system. Diarrhea is not pleasant. I rarely get it, n having it outside is awful. My food now has been tainted numerous times. Soiling myself is a past time of these people. I think of Christ on the Cross, he must have lost his bowls. The shame receding as I think of how Homeless people r made fun of. We need to explain to those in power the need for Human beings to have access to restrooms.
It’s Easter, I have survived outside all Winter—all year; forced on the street by the extremist behavior of a community n group of people that have become Psychopathic—Apocalyptic. The destruction everywhere; including the continual assaults on my life—planned. The 4-horsemen of the Apocalypse bearing down now. I feel the scent of horses breathing, riding, nostrils flared; unleashing the vengeance foretold. End times Prophecy; interesting, a part of my growing up, coming to life or is it a Revolution?
The Chinese speak of Danger n Opportunity. Kesha in the song “Praying,” sings about being abandoned; asking why she is alive? I survived the destruction of my life. I never would have believed what happened or that I would not have had a breakdown, but I didn’t; more like a breakthrough. The fear replaced by the truth. The journey continues. Christ died, risen; he comes again, I was told repeatedly the 20yrs I attended Catholic Church w my ex husband. Kundalini can also feel n b like a destruction; it can b the death of so much. The death of all that is false. In my case, in more ways then one. So many dark nights of the soul until the light comes. The truth prevails—grateful.
Peace be w u dear readers—Namaste
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