Homeless~Sanford Barn, Amsterdam NY
Changes keep coming n haven’t stopped for awhile now. I’m no longer in the old barn, the Sheriff’s, State Police, n the guy that manages the place told me I had to leave. He is n old classmate that w a couple others told me shortly after I was removed from my home that they “all took sides,” I had no idea at the time what they were talking about. I was in shock n had went out to get something to eat at my favorite place. We used to get takeout there all the time. I needed to connect w people, find answers, n had gone there to eat n then another local place to see a band n was approached by these people from High School.
Fred grabbed her breast, another classmate, at the same time making jokes. She was a classmate too, a grade behind me, but hung out w a group that I came too see was involved w my ex-husband right along. Later on in the night they asked me to go for Pizza at another place n Fred forced kissed me n I watched him n another guy Sexually Assault the barmaid, but it was all a joke. I had been shocked that night about it, but now that I know what they all did, it makes more sense. The arrogance, haughtiness was still there; same as when we were in school. I felt some similarities in our shared loss of our fathers, but there had been a darkness w him n his sister, I didn’t have. She could often b dismissive, contemptuous, but I found her sad even w all her money she was often slovenly; unkempt, lazy. I had wondered why, but then also heard later women had complained about her family’s dress-shop she managed. Dresses not hemmed property, things not done as promised. She seemed always not to care, just like in school. Having so much, yet this a lack of compassion. People like things r all disposable; u have so many of them—too many.
The violence I saw him involved w recently a natural progression from High School; the anger simmering below the surface. I had felt that anger, it’s what scared me about him. So good looking, popular, so much money; yet so angry. Surprised, when he grabbed me, slobbering a violent kiss, then to say “what do u think of that? His manner self-righteous, still haughty; aren’t I still great he intoned. His body language looking for me to continue some kind of Sexual interaction. I could sense the simmering violence n wanted to leave.
Where were the 2 girls I came w? Gone, he said. He had aged; overweight now, good old boy red-plaid baggy shirt, baggy Levi’s—slovenly, now menacing me. He wasn’t pleased I didn’t fall into his arms; grateful for his attention. I felt sick; he was w 3 other guys. “we do special jobs,” one menacingly told me when I asked about the tow truck. I didn’t even feel safe now w my car. My ex by this time had made numerous threats. I walked out trying to avoid more danger; tension rising, I could sense their aggression. I was angry I got talked into coming here. I had never gone out at all wo my ex husband n I felt scared n stupid that I was so scared. I was n adult woman, I knew this guy from High School n yet I didn’t know him at all—didn’t want to. High school seemed so long ago now; I had never been that girl, not then not now. I just wanted to go home. I hated being single for reasons like this.
It was a divorce, I thought, what sides were they talking about? I was still in shock, so it was hard to fully understand what they were talking about—laughing about, a secret knowing. We had always split everything 50/50, I had put just as much money into our properties as he did. I did the same amount of work, in fact doing more because I did all the cooking, cleaning, n shopping. We made the same amount of money usually, in fact for awhile, I had been making more. I sensed it was just more of the same. The same High school stuff that made me a target then just continues. Opportunity that allows it to continue. I had worked so hard to b safe, to have enough money; savings, new car, to not have to deal w this kind of menacing. The kind of appeasing u have to do to live ur life. The stalking to hurt u or just to make sure u know who is in charge. Women u go out w often leave. It’s part of the game. I learned to drive young to drive myself home. Having a new car was a blessing I never took lightly.
I know now the whole idea was to make it seem like I made up the Sexual Assault n the Domestic Violence. Grabbing Karen’s breast was to say what I experienced was no big deal. “Remember all my parties?” Fred quipped. “No,” I said, I didn’t attend his parties. I sat behind his sister in French, she was a grade ahead of me, so I heard about all their parties, how wealthy they were; that they lost their father at a young age. I didn’t have my father anymore either, but theirs had passed away like my cousins, so my grief wasn’t acknowledged. It was always some kind exclusion from everyone else; like the separate line for “Welfare kids” I was always forced to stand in. Usually a line by myself; there was only me in my grade mostly—“Welfare!” I was always made aware that I was some how defective because my parents divorced regardless of my grades; regardless of the pain n loss that was similar.
I was bullied, shunned; not invited to parties. I didn’t go to the Prom or participate in after School activities—no rides. Even if I had one, my mother always made it clear she wanted nothing to do w School, so I rarely got involved. I worked hard to b in Honor Society, but was rejected after we moved up to the new High School, they made some excuse about the move, but I lost interest after that—I never studied really. The abuse at home prevented it. My bedroom was often a war zone my mother allowed the kids she babysat for to play in. I got tired of the constant diapers, baby stuff, destruction of my room, but I wasn’t allowed to complain. I learned to take care of kids at a young age; changing diapers, feeding—babysitting.
I went to Walmart feeling sad, broken again. The weight of living like a “Schizophrenic Homeless woman,” was getting to me. I saw little “Bentley,” the child they named after my dog, they all knew he would b deliberately taken—they planned it! My dog was like my child. Bentley, the little boy they named the same as my dog Bentley, he was even born when they took my dog. Bentley called out to me, but my 1/2 brother pulled him away. He’s about a year old now, a sweet baby, but I fear for all the abuse I saw him already b put through when I stayed w my mother a short time after they had me locked up. I knew I would not b able to see him now, in the same way they all stayed away my whole 20yr marriage, only showing up at the end of the marriage knowing all that was going to b done to me. I had dreamed of fixing up the old barn, maybe n Artist loft, I had thought. I had wanted to fix up the Abandoned House too, thinking Bentley could visit. I did the same throughout my marriage w all their children, but none of them ever visited. I was treated like I wasn’t good w kids because I didn’t have any. It became a punishment—then the violent accusations of being a whore. The revenge they had planned all along; vicious accusations of me not having children were always part of it. My ex didn’t want children either, but like all his other lies, I’m sure he twisted that around to his advantage also. Their all getting their licks in now—again!
My mother making up all these lies that I had been violent to her n my ex-husband. My 1/2 siblings also a part of it all. They all attacked me when I stayed there n refused to help me get any of my things. I had no idea even where my mother lived until this started. She had refused to see me when I married, started a huge fight, then told me she never wanted anything to do w me again. “If I ever see u again, never will b too soon,” It had been Christmas, it was awful, but not the first time. She had often threatened to put me in a “Children’s Home,” or Foster Care.
I miss the old Barn; the Robins that came to nest, the big old Rabbit that came by, n Mr Mouse that came to visit. Plus there was a big ole’ Tom cat that came too. The woods were surrounded by these old Pines that kept the wind at bay n provided a quiet in the midst of a busy commercial area. It had been “Home,” for awhile. Like all the other places I have stayed—Home is where u r. They all become missed after u leave, even the hard ones. It had been a hard Winter rough sleeping there, but I had done it. The grief n loss I had been dealing w made it harder, but I was moving forward. Sobbing usually in the mornings was the hardest. It was so cold, I had to have hope when there hasn’t been any, plus the loss of everything I had. The pain was unbearable at times n not one of them cared, pretending they had no idea what doing this to someone would b like. It’s similar to going to Prison, where u lose everything u have n enter another reality. Ur not who u were. There r different norms, expectations—rules.
I’m no longer treated like me. I think about it like being undercover for so long; ur old identity gone, replaced by the undercover one. We have numerous stereotypes for Homeless people, they cease being themselves, like “Welfare” people. It’s easier to dismiss them, blame them—it’s the same now w Sexual Violence. They rounded everyone up to humiliate me, tell me it was “no big deal,” didn’t happen—I made it up, getting a couple of Men to even assault me again. Whores don’t suffer Sexual violence.
Fred was belligerent when I confronted him at the old barn. Still good looking, tall, he still had that air of doing well; money, but I was no longer taken in by him. I hadn’t in High School either. He had been very good looking then too, but there was something not good about all the parties he had, it felt sad; I don’t remember him having a girlfriend. He often seemed forlorn even w all those parties. I told myself, it was probably the loss of his dad like me.
“I don’t know u!” he said after the men he was w told me I had to leave; one swearing at me. His face empty, his eyes cold, his manner dismissive. “What u did was wrong, u should at least apologize,” I told him as the Sheriffs pulled in w the State Police. “It’s private property,” the officer said. “Yes,” I know, I said. “I’m not trying to do anything illegal.” I had been rough sleeping in the woods, it had gotten bitter cold n the barn was empty; falling down. I was photographing it. It’s historic, I said to the officer. Did u go to Social Services? they quipped, by now there were 3 more. He had swore at me, I said. I’ll leave, I’m not trying to do anything wrong, just trying to stay warm.
“I agree there’s not a lot of services, but it’s all we can do,” he said. Yeah, I said, deliberately made homeless might have been a consideration by Judges before I was forced on the street out of my home, but I knew it was pointless to continue. Talking to police only gets u arrested; I learned violently many times trying to defend myself from the ongoing attacks.
It’s extremely difficult not being myself. I spent a lifetime building my life to watch it all deliberately destroyed. This wasn’t just a division of assets, but a condemnation of me personally, n they all lined up to attack. People I hadn’t seen since High School; family that told me years ago when I married they wanted nothing to do w me, on top of all the friends we had that made it clear now all the fights that made no sense were deliberate. It’s one thing for people to not like u, it’s another to b involved in the theft of all ur assets. I’m continually made to explain every day why I’m not eligible for “Public Assistance,” in the same way explaining as a child why I was on “Welfare!” The same Victim blaming continues.
Looking back, it was never my mother that was on Welfare—it was me. She hated my father like she despised me. Her rages were often about him. We didn’t have terms then like “Parental Alienation,” it became group bullying as my 1/2 siblings were rewarded for attacking me also. They saw their family; I was not allowed to see mine. They also, I would find, had all been friends w my ex husband since they were all kids—my 1/2 siblings had 1/2 siblings also. “Buddy,” my mothers boyfriend had been married n had two children; both friends w my ex husband. It’s been devastating finding out it was all planned to destroy my life. To destroy my business, while my cousin launched hers. I had at one time considered her a best friend; the deception going back to when we were girls n her brother molested me.
The Sexual Violence ongoing—brutal, now that I know my 20yr marriage was some sick revenge along w the death of my beloved dogs. Betrayal so profound, I could barely breath; often having to force myself to. Waking up gasping; hyperventilating, I had prayed for death so often, I still can’t believe I survived. I thought breathing automatic, but often I would stop, then heave in huge breaths to put air back in my lungs. My body not wanting to die yet; I wasn’t sure why. The losses were profound, n what made it even more horrible is that I hadn’t done this. I hadn’t drank, did drugs, spend too much money or any of the other numerous things u can do. I constantly worked, but it made no difference, this had all been set up from the start. 20yr Rape I was told n slowly I’m dealing w this kind of profound deception, but it’s taken everything I have.
I’m still dealing w the losses. Everything is a trigger in some ways that remind me of the me that I was. I had my hair done the other day. It was expensive, but my hair had survived n I needed a treat. I thought it was all going to fall out n it just about did. My ex husbands Aunt we took care of, her hair all fell out. Her wigs were a constant concern when I cared for her. Mine had turned white n was falling out in clumps. Ruining my hair had been a constant since I was a girl. I never acknowledged like so many other things, I just tried to get over things; move on. I had pretty hair until it was just about gone. That’s the thing w being denied ur heritage—u don’t know. No one tells u about urself, u live w abuse not love. I always had pretty hair, but it was never acknowledged. I was often forced to wear it in unflattering ways, not allowed to wash it, or cuts that were purposefully done to make it ugly. When I was young, I would often try to cut it myself after incidents where they would burn my hair or cut it so bad there was no point paying to have it done. It’s always been a small town—everyone knows everyone.
It’s been even harder knowing it was all deliberate. I never had a friend here; even the ones that pretended have now turned out to b deceiving me all along n most have come around to sneer; make slights, or align themselves in ways to make sure I know they were part of all the violence—it’s been devastating. It feels like that movie, Truman; living in a TV show, everything controlled, but this is also “Gang-stalking,” n mind control. My mother would often talk about “Puppets,”—control, created through trauma n abuse. Good servants, she often talked of their “farm hands,” in her dismissive way. I held off w calling it Gang Stalking because initially that whole definition was seen as so out there, so conspiracy—extreme. It’s why it’s taken so many years to come to terms w this. My SIL would always tell me “its all in ur head,” whenever I questioned her. Calling me crazy, or insinuations what I was talking about was crazy were all ways to shut down any questions that they acted together, but they all did! Aligning this w being crazy is a way to cover it all up, like labeling u Schizophrenic, which they have. The WhiteSupremacy another horrible layer.
Making u homeless n labeled mentally ill is part of this. The violence/abuse n resulting trauma r done deliberately; it makes u more suggestible—servitude. Rohypnol, “Special K,” also has been used repeatedly. I checked Urban Dictionary about the definition n this is one of the drugs used. My food/water has been tainted repeatedly. Refrigerators turned off so my food spoils—numerous bouts w diarrhea, vomiting. I’m still coming to terms w so much of this; the losses, the bold faced lies from all these people; including law enforcement, the hospital, the Psych ward they also got to lie about me, but I’m still here; still surviving until otherwise still resisting this type of evil control as I did as a girl, as a wife—now in middle age.
Namaste guys b safe—peace
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