thursday 18 february 2010


Page Ten       (new post)

turners fails

If you’ve read any of the previous posts, you can see that I’m copying the original Sehnen posts from Soulcast into this new Sehnen blog. It’s a time-consuming project, but I can’t deal with the slowness on Soulcast anymore.

It was my first blog, and I’ve probably said that already. I chose the site because the name of it precisley fit what I was going to do: cast my grieving, outraged, frightened soul onto the internet. And I still  like the name Soulcast, but I can’t deal with the site’s problems. And I’m still casting my soul — in sorrow and despair and anger and in truth — onto the internet. My way of life was stolen. Consequently I don’t have a hell of a lot to do besides write.

I’ll say some things here that I didn’t say in 2008, as well as some things that I did say, but not thoroughly. I had waited from March 12th until June 6th of that year for the DMH to come up with an apartment and give me back at least some of my animals. Things that were said to me by my mailman, one of my bank managers, one of my doctors, and an ordinary Turners citizen had led me to believe that everything was going to be okay, that I would get my animals back (those who hadn’t yet been killed). As it turns out, I was absolutely right and not delusional to have believed this, but I had to wait a long time to hear it said. Late in 2009, my then therapist told me he had asked some questions and found out that there had indeed been a plan to get me an apartment and give me back some animals, and that I had been “screwed by the system.” The plan had fallen through. He didn’t say what the plan had been or why it hadn’t happened. I am sick to bloody death of people keeping from me, as if I were not an adult with rights, information about my animals and my life. But it’s still going on, three years later. And wasn’t it nice that a mailman and a doctor and a banker and a citizen got to know there was this plan, but anne nakis didn’t get to know.

So I was waiting. I said in my blogs and to other people that my animals and I were finished, but in my heart I didn’t fully believe it. I believed there was a plan. And I kept that as my secret, in a superstitious belief that if I talked about this plan I believed in, I’d somehow jinx it. Shut up about it and wait was my strategy.

But while I was waiting, there were these folks who were in my face all the time, Matthew among them. They had started doing this on March 13, my first day out on the Greenfield streets, and it continued every single day. As time went on, it became more egregious. Already in April I was complaining to my friend about these people. I had lived in the Greenfield-Turners community for over twenty years, and I’d never had such a thing occur. It exceeded by far the dictates of coincidence. The only explanation I could find for these people swarming around me like flies on poop was a weak one, but it was all I had. Over the months from January to April, I had made many complaints about the lack of service I’d received from the DMH. I complained to the Northampton and Boston DMH offices. I complained more than once to the governor’s satellite office in Springfield. I complained to Health and Human Services. My case manager at DMH made a special point of whining to me how much trouble I’d caused them.

I’d complained so much to people higher up than the Greenfield DMH, and I’d said so often that if I lost the animals, I’d die of grief (and I absolutely believed this. It baffles me as I sit here, on a couple of levels, that I’m still alive), that I began to wonder if these people who were always dogging me were some kind of watch-dogs the DMH had hired to make sure I didn’t commit suicide before they implemented their plan. And I knew it was stupid, this theory, but when my brain is presented with a puzzle, it’s compelled to solve it. If one solution turns out to be incorrect, then brain will start over to find another one, but there must be a solution. My brain can’t exist in a daily state of unsolved puzzle, and neither can my psyche. My solution was stupid because I had never said I would kill myself. I’d said I would die of the grief. It was stupid because these watch-dogs wouldn’t be able to stop me doing suicide, if that’s what I wanted to do. It was stupid because the DMH has many depressed clients, and why would they put watch-dogs on just one? But here was the puzzle of these people literally stalking me, and all the trouble I’d supposedly made for the DMH was the only solution I could, at that time, come up with.

I grew so sick of these people, Matthew and the rest. I tell you it was so bad that many times I would come out of a public restroom to find one of them standing right there, so close that I almost hit them with assorted bathroom doors. And no, they did not want the bathrooms. As soon as I came out, they went away, or they would follow me. I would rage inside that I couldn’t even bloody pee without these people hovering around me. They would sit at tables next to mine and watch me eat. On and on. It was real, it was extremely obvious, and it was extremely upsetting. Around the fifth of June I decided I would no longer be a client of the DMH, and then this would all stop. I wrote them a letter saying I no longer wished to be their client. When you do this, there’s a thirty-day waiting period in which you can change your mind, if you like. This meant that about July 7th, I would be officially quit of the Department of Mental Hell. Yes, I thought about my animals and the plan. I thought my letter of termination would spur my case manager into finally telling me about this plan, so that I would remain a client, get an apartment, and get animals back. But the letter spurred nothing, and over the thirty days of waiting I decided that the plan had already been ditched.

The thirty days would pass. I would no longer be their client. I did yet more waiting. Waiting to watch the stalkers not stalk me anymore. Waiting to see them just go about their own business in the shops and on the streets, like everybody else, and leave me alone. But by mid-June, it hadn’t stopped. It had got worse. So brain-that-hates-puzzles goes back to the drawing board in late June. Solution one was not correct. These colossal pains in my bum have nothing at all to do with the DMH. Now what?

On 23 June, a Monday, I’m walking Main Street between one hanging place and another, and suddenly my crime-chick neighbor comes back to mind. The mob cars that had come to the house to visit her in August and September of 2007 came back to mind. Every single thing she had done to torment me for seventeen months came back to mind. Her dealing drugs in the backyard came back to mind. It was the lightbulb going on in the head; it was the proverbial epiphany: this all has something to do with her. And why didn’t I think of this sooner, because if I had, I wouldn’t have terminated with the DMH just yet.

A day or two later, I found Matthew doing his vigil again beside the health food store. I’ve written this part before, and to me it’s worth writing again. I say to him: You people following me and watching me all the time. You’ve got nothing to do with the DMH, do you? He shakes his head and says in one of his idiot voices: No. Then I say: this is something criminal, isn’t it. And he nods and says in the same voice: Yes. And for the second time since March 12 — only three and half months — the fabric of my days was torn to threads. Still ahead of me on that day: On 2 July, a week away, Matthew Lacoy would pick up those unraveled threads that were my hours and days, and he would cut them up into even more pathetic little pieces with his own special pair of scissors. Those scissors were the one word kill.


read…    All my stars…   Stolen stars

~~~~~   website  ~~~~~~  Share    ~~~~~~~

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 all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


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