Homeless—old vacant Rite Aide “Drug store”
Mine, like many others of late has been extremely difficult. Everything I had planned had been upended—destroyed. As hard as I worked, there was always the undermining, in the same way when I was a girl—it was so familiar. I know now it was so familiar because my mother n my ex husband r so much alike. The control so normal because I grew up w it. I sit staring at my DayTimer w weeks of just crossing out the days. There is no activity. I have no real life now. My days used to b full; demanding career, keeping a home, fixing up a Vacation place, taking care of two elderly, demanding in-laws—blind MIL n her mentally ill sister. I went to the gym 3-4 times per week n commuted n hour each way to work. I kept a large flower n vegetable garden n groomed my own sweet Shitzu. A toy-breed dog that needed a lot of grooming n I had gotten good at it after having 2 of them. By the third, “Bentley” had one of those coats I could give him the “Top-knot,” his breed required n I had started watching Champion Dog shows dreaming of possibly showing dogs; I had gotten that good at it n often got compliments on his grooming. I didn’t have children, but “Vi and Irene,” my in-laws were a constant consideration—their demands endless. Coming home at night after the gym, working late into the night to build my Art/Photography business. Managing our own 2-family rental—chores were constant! I was promised, assured, continually told “it would all work out,” whenever their demands became too much. I was to get their homes for my years of hard work—rental income. I would always have a “Home,” I never had to worry whenever I complained, which was rare because having a home was one of the most important goals I had after a childhood spent terrified about being put on the street, forced into Foster care or abandoned somewhere. It almost killed me to b made deliberately homeless at 50yrs old, which is what it was suppose to do. I was told repeatedly that I had a “Psychotic break,” I had no idea what people I loved were talking about. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I knew I wasn’t “crazy!”
I know today it was shock—it was trauma. It was a deep deception that had been going on a long, long time—since I was a child! It was shocking to have things being ripped from me as I was putting together all the lies. The confusion that was normal considering what had been done to me was weaponized against me as accusations of incompetence—psychotic delusions. I was told repeatedly by Judges n Cops that I didn’t understand, that I was incompetent, that I was crazy. Preventing me from knowing the truth was deliberate. By the time I might put things together, which was the goal—I wouldn’t b able to. It would b too late. I was told I would b made “Homeless n Destitute,” in my shock none of that made sense considering the assets I had—the properties I owned, painstakingly worked on all these years! “How is this possible?” I repeatedly asked myself, but the stonewalling was constant, unrelenting—vicious. Today I know criminal—it had all been set up!
I think in terms of images often; visuals. I imagine filming scenes of my experience; a movie. I remember the beautiful staircase at the Abandoned House I tried to buy, but was arrested for trespassing. I had fallen in love w the staircase to the upstairs; one of those beautiful ones out of the old classic movies I loved. I think of that first ride so long ago down the private road to the Lakehouse we would buy. I was finally free of all the abuse; safe, stable—no longer “Welfare.” I owned a Home, a car, eventually new ones, n here I was owning a beautiful high-end place on the Lake. A “Summer Home,” we would make all year round to eventually retire to. Living by the ocean had been a dream. It wasn’t the ocean, but it was a big, beautiful Lake in the Adirondacks—how could I not b grateful. I was 30yrs old, how could I not b thinking I had arrived at a place of success; finally after so much loss, sorrow—abuse. I was earning good money in a career field I loved n the future looked bright. Irene went back n forth about selling the property as she did w everything. Wealth often gives people that power; air of authority. Placating, appeasing her was often what I was made to do. She was after all “doing us a favor,” by giving us a great deal on the place after her second husband passed away. I had originally dreamed it would b a Wedding gift, but that was a little much. We were to buy it. My in-laws were monied, but back then the old fashion “Polish,” way of acting poor was in full force. I never thought much of those things about people, my Grandmother didn’t raise me to question peoples ethnicity or last names. Knowing what someone is like by their last name wasn’t something I learned to do. My ex husband knew all about these kinds of things; often remarking, well they r like this or that. I would ask how he knew things like that just by someone’s name. Today I know so much of it is prejudice, albeit some true, most is stereotypes about people. Keeping a very low profile about money was a big part of my Polish in-laws that turned out to have far more money than I knew. Not only that, but were preying on my money, my servitude, n had no intention of making good on promises they had made.
I complained about my name not being put on these properties, but the Gaslighting was in place the very first time we made the ride down the private road lined w beautiful Pines that seemed to wind around n go on into just the woods, but opened up to a beautiful landing that opened up to a beautiful view of the Lake—6 big places sat gracefully along the hillside in a airy slope. These were houses, not tents or RV’s, like when I camped as a kid at the Campsites here. You had a shower, a kitchen, n indoor fireplace. These were “homes,” on the Lake! I was overwhelmed w joy n accomplishment that working so hard to put myself through college, avoid getting “pregnant young,” n being lucky to find a “nice man,” to marry was finally paying off! I was doing well considering my abusive childhood that was now being put behind me once n for all. I was no longer the bullied, shunned, shamed kid on Welfare. I was a young professional that owned not only a home, but Vacation Property—a Lake home.
As the car ascended the clearing; flowers, pretty plants, manicured, groomed lawns greeted us. I remember for years it would catch my breath as I drove alone w our supplies for holidays n weekends to the Lakehouse before I got used to it. I never really took any of it for granted. I was always taken in by the seeming drive in that hid the beauty. The road was called “Hideaway.” The Hideaway bespoke of privacy, seclusion, accomplishment—success. It was part of the American Dream I believed in. I loved Gloria Steinem, promising I could work hard, provide for myself. Women could earn their way, overcome the poverty I grew up w n have a life; a good life. A clean, decent life I could b safe, happy, secure in.
Neighbors greeted us as we made our way in that very first time. It was to b a continuous encroachment that would last until the end of 20yrs when the State Police arrived to tell me I was a “Prostitute,” would b charged w felony trespassing if I went back into the Lakehouse n I needed to retrieve my clothes n leave. They had dumped my clothes on the deck. The neighbors had been yelling, calling me a Prostitute, making obscene gestures, one grabbing her crotch repeatedly—I went into shock. My sweet dog n I struggling to understand. We were both wet from the first swim of the season. I could not put together why my second home, by this time I was living there, was also being violently taken. I admit thinking of wanting to go into the water n not return; like The Hours, Virginia Woolf. I glanced over to the other side of the protected bay n saw a row of men all in red shirts. Were they Firemen? Did the State Police have them there afraid I would take my life? Questions still remain. I yelled to them, but was told I better keep my voice down as my still husband came glaring down the beach n told me to “get out” of here. His voice thick w what I can only say now is malice. A deep hatred I had not heard before. A hate I would never had thought he possessed for me. The shock rendering me mute, frozen, moving like in a trance—slow motion, stunned.
I packed up my things from Goodwill, leaving more things I had just bought. More losses, more money spent, preventing me once again from trying to get on my feet. I had applied for a couple jobs in Maine I had been excited about. Content Manager positions, Communications reminding myself that I was a Professional, had the experience in spite of the attacks on my career history! I stumbled forward again wondering where I would go after men arrived to look at the old Goodwill store after I was told again it was “Private Property,” n again Lanzi family that had connections w my ex were making subtle threats about preventing me from sleeping there. The stalking was ongoing n relentless as they all continued to threaten. My ex’s friends or Mothers showing up repeatedly to get me evicted or kicked out of places. Then of course the arrests for trying to sleep somewhere, get on my feet, look for housing, which was growing increasingly difficult as my savings was now gone. I was told he would make me desperate. I had also cashed in one small IRA meant for my retirement wo penalty because of COVID, I could not do it again w my other one. What would I have at retirement age, which for me is 66yrs old! I also had not been working now in awhile. There were threats about my Social Security. I knew in horror now what they threatened was happening—destitution. I had barely survived facing the prospect of my credit, business, n career destroyed when they forced me into a Psych ward, accusing me of being “Delusional,” n lying about Domestic Violence—I was now broke!
I was now what they accused—incompetent! I looked unable to care for myself, get a job; move forward. I was exhausted from all the moves, no sleep, constant violence n anxiety. The accusations of being crazy were getting harder n harder to refute. How could I not look like the stereotypes of a “Homeless Woman.” Middle age, unwanted, unable to b a part of Society—a loser. A failure of the American Dream. It was my fault. I was lazy, possibly a drunk, drug addict, violent. The stereotypes so strong, so all encompassing, there is no defense. I wore the same clothes often now even though I tried to hand wash them—being on the street is dirty. My hair had not been done in awhile, my skin starting to show a hardness that wasn’t there before. The elements aren’t kind to ur skin being continuously outside. I had more age spots now. Midlife weight gain was bad as I was unable to work out all the time now n my teeth weren’t being cared for in the meticulous way I did before. I now looked like the stereotypes. I looked in the mirror n didn’t recognize who I was now. The fact this was deliberate was also another layer I had to deal w. The shame unbearable on top of old shame returning from my childhood. Shame that I had long ago dealt w. Shame that I thought I would never have to deal w again.
I had no idea that first beautiful Spring day we rode down the private drive to the Lakehouse that no one had any intention of seeing me as a successful professional. A young woman doing well. A young woman that had worked hard, had overcome so much, n had become a success. There would b no pats on the back, no credit—no compliments. I see my young self in a movie arriving that day full of hope for the future. A young bride, the slow motion ride into what seemed like a dream n the horror of realizing it was actually a nightmare unfolding. I wake up so many mornings thinking it’s all a bad dream—cut! the cameramen say—it’s only a movie. I drift back to that Spring day. The neighbors being introduced. A Rosemary’s Baby of deception. Neighbors that never saw me as a human being let alone a silly thing now like successful? I see how young I was, how naïveté I was. How stupid on days it all overwhelms me. The smooth, calculated way they entered my life—all friends before I got there. All in agreement at what was to unfold. The alternate reality I would slowly b seduced into. The DARVO that started from the very beginning—Gaslighting.
“You have family?” always among the first questions I learned to deal w young. My parents r divorced, I don’t have much family, I would reply. Oh? would often b the refrain, subtly insinuating blame. It’s usually done to make those seemingly nice connections strangers use to establish familiarity. Everyone knows everyone; things r safe, secure, friendly—neighborly, but it’s often a weapon. I would experience a little of this at work. Competition was often fierce for jobs I had. Art jobs were difficult to get in the area. Any weakness could b used to exploit u or remove u from a promotion, team player. Things like having a big, nice family—everyone gets along. We had a wonderful Holiday. I learned to b careful of revealing too much about family, just like when I was a child. I could never call my Mother for help. I could not ask her for things. I could not ask her to cooperate n do things Mothers often did to b supportive to their children. She would deliberately do things to humiliate or embarrass me. She would arrive so late to events or not show at all. You learn not to ask. You learn if u do u will b punished. My ex was the same as were my in-laws. They were too busy, they traveled—they were important.
The slow erosion of ur sense of self, the power n confidence that was ever so subtly taken. The reality created, like fog that surrounded me, but I couldn’t see. The communication that stopped after that first day as their large families gathered at the beach as I sat alone. The blame mine for having no family to invite. My Mother recently violently telling me she wanted nothing to do w me. “If I ever see u again, never will b too soon!” She had underlined “NEVER,” numerous times. I was still reeling from that as I watched everyone on the beach too mortified to sit by myself. I would eventually learn to stroll down the beach, setup my umbrella, n enjoy my “Beach Rights,” but I had no idea the sinister hate that was far deeper than my young self could understand at the time.
Whispers of me being crazy started right away. Laughing on the beach, gossiping, they would all line up having fun. I didn’t have family. It was about family. “Do u have children?” became why don’t u have them. The blame always mine. I was different. I had learned this young. I had learned to overcome. I had done well. I had pulled myself up by my boot-straps. This was no different, I had thought, but I had no idea.
I connected again w my young self from so long ago, letting go of the guilt n blame. How could I not know so long? How could I put up w so much disrespect? How could I receive nothing from any of these people? I was promised so much, assured by all the lawyers involved, but simple kindness was absent. Serving my in-laws inside; cooking, cleaning, making sure all my ex husband’s cans of Beer were picked up from our manicured lawn in the morning rather than sitting on the beach w friends n family like all the neighbors did. Our Boat safe at the dock after navigating a very intoxicated husband home—everything nice, upscale. Not a place of such abuse. Not a place of people that eventually wanted me condemned to the street.
I wake up in the doorway of a Pharmacy, “Drug store,” which is funny in some ways, but not in terms of so much Opioid addiction—drive through. I pulled up to the very same store in my new car on the way to the Lakehouse only 6yrs ago. I think of the movie I dream about or is it the dream I will make a movie about. The shock still makes me reel if I’m not careful. The brutal way this was done—set up! “She is really mentally ill,” they would giggle n laugh after the first fight they picked, I was as told I made too much of. This would b the pattern, ever so slowly, but the longer I’m away from the abuse the more the parts of me I repressed surface.
My anger I was repeatedly shamed for bubbles up through the lies. A good wife is never angry. She is soft, feminine—always kind. She doesn’t need to raise her voice, if she is good, she is rewarded w everyone’s love as she provides for them. She makes a home, she cooks, she submits to her husband—he’s a male after-all. I rarely even said, “Fuck!” I didn’t yell, I didn’t withhold sex; I never demanded or complained. I went to Church quite regularly believing a wife submits to her husband. After much struggle, God n I r on better terms now; I’m no longer attending Catholic Church. God is not sexist, the Church is. I have learned I can b assertive, learned I can b strong, especially w issues concerning my life—it’s ok, in fact it’s my right! It’s my life!
Rough sleeping in Winter forces u to come to terms w ur survival. It’s not a question of being “nice!” I’m no longer being nice! I don’t want to b nice anymore. Seeing women that were so cruel to me n telling them they could no longer b abusive to me has been empowering. This is what I’m learning being homeless. I don’t have time for ur bullshit abuse. I have no time for the cattiness that hides hate. I won’t tolerate ur disrespect anymore. I won’t tolerate ur lack of compassion.
I recently watched Valerie Bertinelli. She is also recently divorced. I see her constant need to b kind n I see myself. While kindness is good, I wanted to scream n tell her to say “Fuck Off.” For me, her problem is not embracing being fat, I overeat too—it’s anger. It’s unexpressed anger because we always have to b nice. I’m not nice rough sleeping in a doorway, but I also can’t spew anger indiscriminately. I know now what was missing—assertiveness! The assertiveness I was denied because I was not allowed to question the abuse. “Who do u think u r?” u think ur so smart! then the revenge, vindictiveness to teach me a lesson n I was usually out numbered. Usually humiliated in front of large groups, they all had their mobs of friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues. I was often alone. I channeled this anger at the gym, burning it off in 3hr work outs. I didn’t realize while this was good, I needed to move beyond that.
Valerie calls her memoir Enough Already, about learning to love herself today in spite of being overweight, having depression. I didn’t read the book, she might talk about anger, but it’s not the impression I get from her interviews where she cries a lot. I see myself all those years; I cried A LOT! I know so much were lies, but I know I also have to take responsibility for not being assertive. For not saying—Fuck Off! My unwritten memoir, I laugh, at this point, is much more feisty than hers. She still talks like the good wife—always kind, always loving. I don’t believe it’s healthy to not tell someone they can’t fuck u over anymore—it’s not kind to u, it’s not kind to them either. They need to hear ur limits; so do others. They need consequences too n might not know they r hurting u, but more importantly many do know! They do know!
They laugh at me now, but we both know now—yeah, u fucked me over, but fuck off! It’s not over yet, it’s only 1/2 time—major upset possible ahead. I was always the underdog, picked last for grade school kickball, but when I played I did good. Often benched, often made fun off, but timing is often a big part of success too. It’s what good movies r about.
The story line often takes our heroine through hardships to make her stronger, clear out the damage; prevail against all the odds. To come up from behind; not the hare but the turtle. I see turtles a lot these days, as I carry my pack, what’s left of my life on my back. The movie isn’t over. I imagine all those years ago knowing. Knowing the danger, knowing I should have left at various times, but telling myself, he didn’t hit me; not understanding the deadly violence of slowly boiling a frog in water. Today I do. Today, I don’t have time to appease, placate u. I have to figure out where I will sleep, get water—use the restroom, wash up.
The anger bubbles up, then I cry; tears falling profusely. Ur too sensitive I was often told. I’m learning again to b tougher. I’m learning again that I don’t have to b nice—don’t want to b all that nice anymore. Today, I know everyone I knew was pretending to b nice while they destroyed my ability to live my life—that’s pretty violent. It’s in fact deadly. I could have died numerous times n it’s still precarious, especially when Judges condemned me back to the street all Winter! In that vein, I refuse to b kind to someone that’s not sorry, doesn’t care, continues the violence n above all—Knows!
Stuffing myself w food, pushing down my anger at not being able to live is not nice! It’s not nice to wake up dirty, needing to use the restroom n having no privacy. It’s not nice being terrified ur on the street in danger of being raped n/or murdered n no one cares! It’s ok Valerie not to b nice. She was also the proverbial “Good girl,” it’s interesting she supports Johnny Depp; many do, I don’t. He reminds me too much of the Men I know. Men that force me to constantly b submissive, consolatory, appeasing, in spite of not being able to live. Sleeping in doorways is not a life, it’s dangerous, but that’s what they did! A strong FUCK YOU is the answer; not eating 3 donuts, working out until exhausted or being nice! I’m not going to b nice to ur continual disrespect, dehumanization or continual abuse. That feels pretty good today! Of course, learning to say FU takes finesse. Learning to say this is what I need, what I want, what I deserve is the lesson. To accept pleasure—to take. To have edges. To protect myself. To know my worth! To enjoy the fruits of my labor like Lucinda Williams sings. To not have given all those blow-jobs only to b told he wasn’t into the same for me. No, this time around it’s time to say Fuck No!
I had no idea that first beautiful Spring day we rode down the private drive to the Lakehouse that no one had any intention of seeing me as a successful professional. A young woman doing well. A young woman that had worked hard, had overcome so much, n had become a success. There would b no pats on the back, no credit—no compliments. I see my young self in a movie arriving that day full of hope for the future. A young bride, the slow motion ride into what seemed like a dream n the horror of realizing it was actually a nightmare unfolding. I wake up so many mornings thinking it’s all a bad dream—cut! the cameramen say—it’s only a movie. I drift back to that Spring day. The neighbors being introduced. A Rosemary’s Baby of deception. Neighbors that never saw me as a human being let alone a silly thing now like successful? I see how young I was, how naïveté I was. How stupid on days it all overwhelms me. The smooth, calculated way they entered my life—all friends before I got there. All in agreement at what was to unfold. The alternate reality I would slowly b seduced into. The DARVO that started from the very beginning—Gaslighting.
“You have family?” always among the first questions I learned to deal w young. My parents r divorced, I don’t have much family, I would reply. Oh? would often b the refrain, subtly insinuating blame. It’s usually done to make those seemingly nice connections strangers use to establish familiarity. Everyone knows everyone; things r safe, secure, friendly—neighborly, but it’s often a weapon. I would experience a little of this at work. Competition was often fierce for jobs I had. Art jobs were difficult to get in the area. Any weakness could b used to exploit u or remove u from a promotion, team player. Things like having a big, nice family—everyone gets along. We had a wonderful Holiday. I learned to b careful of revealing too much about family, just like when I was a child. I could never call my Mother for help. I could not ask her for things. I could not ask her to cooperate n do things Mothers often did to b supportive to their children. She would deliberately do things to humiliate or embarrass me. She would arrive so late to events or not show at all. You learn not to ask. You learn if u do u will b punished. My ex was the same as were my in-laws. They were too busy, they traveled—they were important.
The slow erosion of ur sense of self, the power n confidence that was ever so subtly taken. The reality created, like fog that surrounded me, but I couldn’t see. The communication that stopped after that first day as their large families gathered at the beach as I sat alone. The blame mine for having no family to invite. My Mother recently violently telling me she wanted nothing to do w me. “If I ever see u again, never will b too soon!” She had underlined “NEVER,” numerous times. I was still reeling from that as I watched everyone on the beach too mortified to sit by myself. I would eventually learn to stroll down the beach, setup my umbrella, n enjoy my “Beach Rights,” but I had no idea the sinister hate that was far deeper than my young self could understand at the time.
Whispers of me being crazy started right away. Laughing on the beach, gossiping, they would all line up having fun. I didn’t have family. It was about family. “Do u have children?” became why don’t u have them. The blame always mine. I was different. I had learned this young. I had learned to overcome. I had done well. I had pulled myself up by my boot-straps. This was no different, I had thought, but I had no idea.
I connected again w my young self from so long ago, letting go of the guilt n blame. How could I not know so long? How could I put up w so much disrespect? How could I receive nothing from any of these people? I was promised so much, assured by all the lawyers involved, but simple kindness was absent. Serving my in-laws inside; cooking, cleaning, making sure all my ex husband’s cans of Beer were picked up from our manicured lawn in the morning rather than sitting on the beach w friends n family like all the neighbors did. Our Boat safe at the dock after navigating a very intoxicated husband home—everything nice, upscale. Not a place of such abuse. Not a place of people that eventually wanted me condemned to the street.
I wake up in the doorway of a Pharmacy, “Drug store,” which is funny in some ways, but not in terms of so much Opioid addiction—drive through. I pulled up to the very same store in my new car on the way to the Lakehouse only 6yrs ago. I think of the movie I dream about or is it the dream I will make a movie about. The shock still makes me reel if I’m not careful. The brutal way this was done—set up! “She is really mentally ill,” they would giggle n laugh after the first fight they picked, I was as told I made too much of. This would b the pattern, ever so slowly, but the longer I’m away from the abuse the more the parts of me I repressed surface.
My anger I was repeatedly shamed for bubbles up through the lies. A good wife is never angry. She is soft, feminine—always kind. She doesn’t need to raise her voice, if she is good, she is rewarded w everyone’s love as she provides for them. She makes a home, she cooks, she submits to her husband—he’s a male after-all. I rarely even said, “Fuck!” I didn’t yell, I didn’t withhold sex; I never demanded or complained. I went to Church quite regularly believing a wife submits to her husband. After much struggle, God n I r on better terms now; I’m no longer attending Catholic Church. God is not sexist, the Church is. I have learned I can b assertive, learned I can b strong, especially w issues concerning my life—it’s ok, in fact it’s my right! It’s my life!
Rough sleeping in Winter forces u to come to terms w ur survival. It’s not a question of being “nice!” I’m no longer being nice! I don’t want to b nice anymore. Seeing women that were so cruel to me n telling them they could no longer b abusive to me has been empowering. This is what I’m learning being homeless. I don’t have time for ur bullshit abuse. I have no time for the cattiness that hides hate. I won’t tolerate ur disrespect anymore. I won’t tolerate ur lack of compassion.
I recently watched Valerie Bertinelli. She is also recently divorced. I see her constant need to b kind n I see myself. While kindness is good, I wanted to scream n tell her to say “Fuck Off.” For me, her problem is not embracing being fat, I overeat too—it’s anger. It’s unexpressed anger because we always have to b nice. I’m not nice rough sleeping in a doorway, but I also can’t spew anger indiscriminately. I know now what was missing—assertiveness! The assertiveness I was denied because I was not allowed to question the abuse. “Who do u think u r?” u think ur so smart! then the revenge, vindictiveness to teach me a lesson n I was usually out numbered. Usually humiliated in front of large groups, they all had their mobs of friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues. I was often alone. I channeled this anger at the gym, burning it off in 3hr work outs. I didn’t realize while this was good, I needed to move beyond that.
Valerie calls her memoir Enough Already, about learning to love herself today in spite of being overweight, having depression. I didn’t read the book, she might talk about anger, but it’s not the impression I get from her interviews where she cries a lot. I see myself all those years; I cried A LOT! I know so much were lies, but I know I also have to take responsibility for not being assertive. For not saying—Fuck Off! My unwritten memoir, I laugh, at this point, is much more feisty than hers. She still talks like the good wife—always kind, always loving. I don’t believe it’s healthy to not tell someone they can’t fuck u over anymore—it’s not kind to u, it’s not kind to them either. They need to hear ur limits; so do others. They need consequences too n might not know they r hurting u, but more importantly many do know! They do know!
They laugh at me now, but we both know now—yeah, u fucked me over, but fuck off! It’s not over yet, it’s only 1/2 time—major upset possible ahead. I was always the underdog, picked last for grade school kickball, but when I played I did good. Often benched, often made fun off, but timing is often a big part of success too. It’s what good movies r about.
The story line often takes our heroine through hardships to make her stronger, clear out the damage; prevail against all the odds. To come up from behind; not the hare but the turtle. I see turtles a lot these days, as I carry my pack, what’s left of my life on my back. The movie isn’t over. I imagine all those years ago knowing. Knowing the danger, knowing I should have left at various times, but telling myself, he didn’t hit me; not understanding the deadly violence of slowly boiling a frog in water. Today I do. Today, I don’t have time to appease, placate u. I have to figure out where I will sleep, get water—use the restroom, wash up.
The anger bubbles up, then I cry; tears falling profusely. Ur too sensitive I was often told. I’m learning again to b tougher. I’m learning again that I don’t have to b nice—don’t want to b all that nice anymore. Today, I know everyone I knew was pretending to b nice while they destroyed my ability to live my life—that’s pretty violent. It’s in fact deadly. I could have died numerous times n it’s still precarious, especially when Judges condemned me back to the street all Winter! In that vein, I refuse to b kind to someone that’s not sorry, doesn’t care, continues the violence n above all—Knows!
Stuffing myself w food, pushing down my anger at not being able to live is not nice! It’s not nice to wake up dirty, needing to use the restroom n having no privacy. It’s not nice being terrified ur on the street in danger of being raped n/or murdered n no one cares! It’s ok Valerie not to b nice. She was also the proverbial “Good girl,” it’s interesting she supports Johnny Depp; many do, I don’t. He reminds me too much of the Men I know. Men that force me to constantly b submissive, consolatory, appeasing, in spite of not being able to live. Sleeping in doorways is not a life, it’s dangerous, but that’s what they did! A strong FUCK YOU is the answer; not eating 3 donuts, working out until exhausted or being nice! I’m not going to b nice to ur continual disrespect, dehumanization or continual abuse. That feels pretty good today! Of course, learning to say FU takes finesse. Learning to say this is what I need, what I want, what I deserve is the lesson. To accept pleasure—to take. To have edges. To protect myself. To know my worth! To enjoy the fruits of my labor like Lucinda Williams sings. To not have given all those blow-jobs only to b told he wasn’t into the same for me. No, this time around it’s time to say Fuck No!
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