turn, turn

Page Thirty-nine       (copy from soulcast)

sehnen posted on Jun 04, 2008 | views: 65 | Tags: psycho returnsx

june 4, 2008   turners falls

Back in the homeplace again, or one of my homeplaces. This, Turners Falls, was home for twenty-two years; first twelve, then a gap, then ten. I just a few minutes ago saw the mafia-chick who harassed me relentlessly for seventeen months, and no one — not the landlady, not the DMH, not a lawyer, not the police, not any social service agency — did a damned thing about it. I saw her two days ago in Greenfield, and a week before that in Greenfield as well. I find it slightly odd — since she now supposedly lives in a town called Erving — that for eleven weeks I didn’t see her at all, anywhere, and now I’ve seen her thrice in two weeks. Someone’s been calling on my cell phone at 3:30 in the morning off and on for a couple of weeks, leaving voice mail. I don’t listen to voice mail, as it uses up minutes. And someone’s been leaving me text messages twice a week for the last couple of weeks too, which I also don’t read because it uses up minutes. People who know me and are in contact with me, know that if I don’t answer the phone, they have to just hang up. Whoever’s doing this is not in any kind of normal contact with me. And this is one of the things she used to do to me when we lived in the same building: harassment over the telephone.

So let’s add another thread to the tale of the DMH incompetence, or indifference, or whatever, and discuss the mafia-chick a little. I’ve only done that once before on these blogs. Here’s just a sample of the violation of my tenant’s rights that she foisted on me:

1.      She knew which room I slept in, and that I slept right against the wall, because you could just look in my window and see that. All the tenants who’d lived there knew where I slept most of the time. And no matter what time of day or night I tried to sleep (remember my raging immune system), psycho-mafia-chick would either bang on the wall, shriek outside the window, or have her hound barking outside my window or on the other side of the wall. She’s psychotic and doesn’t require much sleep, so it was nothing for her to come to the wall at midnight and slam cabinets, or 2 am, or 3 am, or any time she wanted.

2.      We shared a cellar for laundry and storage, and there was a stairway down to the cellar. On more than one occasion she loosened the light bulb on the stairway so that it did not function when I hit the switch. I fell down two of the stairs at night on one of the occasions when she did this.

Just a very tiny sample of her insanity, her viciousness. After she’d been living there for about thirteen months, I heard her say to one of her friends that she had a deal with the landlady to drive me out. When it didn’t work, the landlady evicted me for complaining about this psycho-chick’s harassment. That’s an illegal thing for a landlord to do in Massachusetts, but I couldn’t afford a lawyer.

Update 15 June 2009:  So this post was first written on June 4, 08. I was still living in the rented room. I only gave you a small sample of the ways this psychotic, substance-addicted (and substance-dealing) tenant harassed me for seventeen months because to go through the whole litany of abuse all at one sitting is too much for me. I still feel sick and depressed and trapped and afraid when I occasionally think back on what I had to put up with from her. And when I wrote a letter of complaint to the equally psychotic landlady, she evicted me. And she knew full well it would destroy me, that there was no place else for me to go with fourteen animals, and she knew they were my whole life. She pretends to be an animal-lover, this professional woman with money and clout and at least one pal (the psycho-chick) with  mob connections.

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read…  Spite and malice Mugsy’s book

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

(kooky doll at www.signals.com; yes, she’s verkehrt on purpose)

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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