thursday 21 march 2013

the delusional thing. a diagnosis made on what basis? I occasionally asked this question, back in 2008 and 2009, of various psyhcobabble boneheads. they didn’t answer me. they changed the subject. and no matter how many breaths I wasted telling them that that conclusion was an insult to both my integrity and my sanity, that a flesh-and-blood human being (the infamous matthew lacoy) had taken me to his apartment numerous times, had told me certain things, and had done some very undercover-cop-like things in my presence, no one was moved to write something other than delusional on their little pieces of paper. no matter how many of them told me that it was true that I didn’t have the affect that delusionals normally  have, or the multiple fairy-stories, still they wrote what they wrote. when I objected that I was not receiving sinister messages from my toaster, or my TV, or the inside of my head, the psychobabblers looked down at their shoes, or out the window. and regardless of how many times they asked me, in how many different places, had I ever heard voices? seen visions?, and my answers were always NO, they still wrote what wasn’t at all true on their papers. they asked me what year it was, who was president, how old I was, and other such things, ad nauseam, and I always had the right answers. but still they wrote their totally erroneous words on their little pieces of paper (which later got transferred to their computer files on said fruit-loop, anne nakis).

it’s bad enough when ordinary people dismiss you as a delusional (and by no means every ordinary person has. a good number have believed me), but it’s far worse when the psycho-corps writes it on papers whose words get typed into computer files and you, the incorrectly diagnosed, cannot erase one word of it. even after you are quite dead, anyone who might decide for whatever reason to go nosing around in your life can potentially find these untruths about you and take them as truth. after all, if a psychobabbler said it, it must be true. right?

though I strain this old brain, I can’t now remember who it was I had the expunging discussion with, which particular psychobabbler in which particular town. nonetheless the conversation was had, in which I asked what would I have to do to get these totally false diagnoses removed from my various records. the answer was that I would need to 1.) be evaluated by at least two separate psychiatrists who would both declare that I was not delusional… that perhaps matthew was, or that he was just a creep who was hoaxing me for some reason, but that I myself was simply repeating words that he’d said to me and relating things that he and others (including the mafia-chick herself) had said and done in my presence; 2.) hire a lawyer to go to court with me and present the testimony from these psychiatrists, and said lawyer would urge the judge to order that my records be expunged of words like delusional or schizophrenic.

as if I have the proverbial snowball’s chance in hades of hiring shrinks and some lawyer for the mentally ill, on my disability income of less than $1500 a month. as if I ever have any prayer of getting this job done. with no other options, I have written for five years in the sehnen, braon, and mishibone blogs about absolutely true words and events of 2008 and 2009. I have talked myself blue, with the result that some people believe me, and some don’t, and those who don’t are mostly the airheads who write the slander on their pieces of paper. after my death, all of this slander will still exist in various psychobabble computers, and there is nothing I can do to clear my name in their realm, to defend my sanity and my integrity.


read…     who was that guy…    why are you still alive….

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.



Far and Countless Cries From Home

Page Forty-nine

Wed 5 May 2010…   Turning harder

This title is the last line of a poem I wrote years ago, and since those poems (the whole notebook) seems to have been thrown into the dumpster by the psycho landlady on the day she was moving me in to her building, I haven’t seen the thing for years. I no longer remember the rest of it. (Yes, mental landlady took it upon herself to throw certain of my belongings into her dumpster on the day she was moving me in, without so much as a by-your-leave).

When I wrote it, I still had my human family (though the way I had them was always precarious) and my animal family. I was much more “at home” than I am now, and yet there was still always this feeling of not having found the “home” of someone who understood me.

How much further I am away now… the human family lost in 1999… animal family taken and killed in 2008…  Further, and infinitely more cries from home… a literal home, a soul home, a heart home…

Letting go tears in deserts where I stare and roam,
Far and countless cries from home.
(part of the book Being Toward Death)
~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

shiloh two

Page Forty-five

sehnen posted on Jun 07, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: shiloh-meekix

still sat 7 june 2008   Greenfield

Shiloh was one of the three cats slaughtered by the  local “shelter,” along with her two cousins. She was born Aug 7, 1992, the last of a litter of six. And yet again I saw the “runt of the litter” predictions come true. She remained her whole life not just the smallest member of her litter, but of her entire extended family. She was the size that most kittens are when they’re maybe eight or nine months old, for over 15 years. And so no matter how old she got, part of me always thought of her as very young. At least until about 2006, when she was 14. Finally I could see signs of aging in her that had really been a long time coming. She stayed so much the same for so many years. She was gentle, and funny. And also sutbborn about certain things, like many animals. She was a people-sleeper. Not all cats are. Her father wasn’t. She had her family’s greater-than-average curiosity about the world, and she had her grandmother’s intense love for home and humans. In the 90’s, Shiloh was one of the cats who used to walk the canal with me in Turners Falls. They have these cement pillar-type things along the canal (I don’t know what they’re called) and there was one particular one she             always had to jump onto and roll around on. They’re not very big on the top, and I don’t know how many times I had to catch her in her roll so she wouldn’t fall into the water. I named that pillar Shiloh’s Lookout. We moved away from the canal in 97,when the hell years began, but whenever I make it back there, Shiloh’s Lookout is always one of the stops I make. I haven’t been back there yet since she was killed. 

There was another trait that her particular family had in abundance, and that was the love of running water. Most of my cats over my lifetime didn’t give a hoot whether they ever sat on a sink and watched water run from a tap, or hung out with me in flowerbeds to watch water pouring from the watering can. But all of Shiloh’s family were very keen on watching running water, as long it was a modest amount. If the flow got stronger, then the normal feline dislike of falling water would kick in.

When Shiloh’s dad was eight, he began demanding his drinking water from a tap about forty percent of the time. When he was thirteen, he began making this demand almost one hundred percent. Shiloh did the same thing. For the time that her father still lived, she allowed him to have the bathroom sink as his drinking property, but as soon as he died, she claimed tap-drinking at the sink for herself. She was thirteen, the same age he had been when he went completely to tap-drinking. She continued to drink her water only from the bathroom tap until the day two and half years later when neurotypicals took her away.

Update 20 June 2009:  Shiloh and her two male cousins were murdered by the animal “shelter” on March 24, 2008, only two weeks into their “foster” care. I think of the ending they had with shame and rage: two weeks of stress, living in cages, being handled by strangers who didn’t love them, then death. And I wasn’t even with them when they died. If we had stayed together, Shiloh probably would have died sometime last year anyway. She was nearly 16. But she would have lived her last days with her family, in love, and I would have been with her when she died. Her two cousins were only 12, and would still be alive if we had stayed together. All three of these cats had been with me and with each other since they were born. I think of everyone who had anything to with what happened to my family with dark contempt: the landlady, the psycho-chick, the DMH and CSS, the “shelter.” That building is empty now, the one where my 3 cats were murdered — the “shelter” has moved to a new location. I sometimes ride by that place on the bus, the now-vacant one, the place where three cousins who loved me, and whom I loved, were sentenced to death. There’s only darkness there on that little hill, only darkness in those people who worked there, only darkness in me, when my eyes look up to tha building. Yet another example of how the Department of Mental Health “assisted” me. 

Since I first wrote this post, I have been back to the canal and Shiloh’s Lookout a number of times, including this past Memorial day. So many emotions trapped inside me when I visit: the humor and the happiness of those lost days on the canal with my cats; the sorrow; the contempt for the humans who destroyed my life and for those who destroyed my animals.

And today, 20 June 2009, is the ninth birthday of three more of the stolen cats: Aram, Abel and Chani. Or it would have been their ninth birthday. I have reason to deduce that these three cats living in a garage full of yard sale crap that belongs to an extrememly unethical priest, were rounded up in cat traps by a certain woman in this town and taken to a vet friend of hers in Vermont to be killed. But when this was done, no one will tell me. They won’t even verify that it was done.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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they’re gone


sehnen posted on May 05, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: failingx

still, still monday 5 may 2008…     turners fails

It’s a failure Mommy who can’t protect her children. It’s an incompetent Mommy who has such a raging immune system that she can’t work and buy a house in which to keep her family safe. It’s a stupid Mommy who trusts the wrong people. It’s a chicken Mommy who is so afraid of things that other people do all the time, that she couldn’t be tougher against the world of humans and maybe save her family. Whatever else I am, and I am some very good things, in my own opinion, I am also a failure, and incompetent, and stupid about people, and a person with a whole lot of fears about other people.                                                                          


Update 30 May 2009: Oh, they’re gone. It hurts so much, I can’t desribe it. My failure to be able to make it with people. My failure to be able to butter up the landlady, even after her erratic emotions and prodigious lies had come to frighten me. My failure to get the idea of pills: maybe the pills I’m taking now would have helped me bear up better in an emotionally charged situation. I really fall apart in situations like that. My failure to hang on to the letter of complaint I wrote about the mafia-chick, instead of taking it to the landlady. If I’d done any of these things differently, there might not have been an eviction, and I might still be living with my family now. But on the other side, if the landlady disliked me so much, why couldn’t she just have ignored me and collected my rent? No, she had to be so vicious as to destroy me. People who choose viciousness and cruelty always could make a different choice. They choose aggression because they enjoy it, it gives them a feeling of power. And if there’s one thing my ex-landlady loves, it’s power.


(r.monti sculpture at www.toscano.com)


read…   Extempoaneana…  Kaikenlainen


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



the nettle, danger

Page Nineteen

sehnen posted on May 03, 2008 | views: 131 | Tags: lifex, the flowerx, safetyx

saturday 3 may 2008   greenfield

I got a radio on Mayday. Radio, music and audiobooks were the background sounds to our lives since the fall of 1998, radio. I couldn’t afford cable anymore. I’ve been listening to some of the shows we always listened to, and the grief is growing…

The sods at DMH, and maybe even mental health care in general, are destructively dense and limited in their thinking. They believe that as long as you’re not holding a razor or a bottle of pills, you’re not going to die. Your cells die slowly as your soul does…

I need their names in cyberspace again: Mishi, Brainse, Lizzie, Tuuschi, Canajoharie, Judah, Shiloh, Mandy, Chan, Ziidj, Chailin, Abel, Aram, Chani. The stolen, the killed, my family…

In the fall of 2007, our last fall together, I found yet another quote from Shakespeare that became a favorite (my animals were used to hearing Shakespeare; from the radio, from me, from books on tape):  Out of this nettle, danger,/We pluck this flower, safety. I hoped so hard that we’d pluck out that safety flower, but with so many malevolent humans working against us… Our helping pals at the DMH in Greenfield Massachusetts  saw to that. And a multiple-personality landlady, and a mafia-chick.

Update 29 May 2009: Who knows precisely how many cold human souls were involved in the destruction of my life. The landlady for sure. The uncaring social workers at the DMH and CSS, for sure. But feds too? According to Matthew, yes, and I see it as entirely possible, in light of the things he said and in light of things I saw and heard.

Depression and loneliness are much more severe now. There was the denial practiced by a psyche that could not accept the worst blow of its life. There was hope: that DMH, the feds would do something and give me back some of my family. People spout a lot of rose-colored, really very silly things about hope. But at bottom hope, when it goes on too long and in the face of too much contrary evidence, is just another crutch grabbed at by denial.

Again, I didn’t put the tag life on this post. Someone or someones out there enjoy adding tags I don’t want.


       moonriver said on May 03, 2008…. delete block user

I want you to know that I’ve started reading your blogs with deep interest, from the first one you posted, onwards. You have a unique view on life, which I’d like to understand. I hope you’re coping well.

I wonder how moonriver would have coped with the events of my life since 2006, if they had happened to HIM. Moonriver and me.


read…  Don’t ask…    Poison and snowflake trees

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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

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


computer cock-eyed

Page Six                         (copying originals)

sehnen posted on Apr 19, 2008 | views: 212 | Tags: blackworldx

saturday 19 april 2008    greenfield                

Just started over again on my blogger blog, as I have no idea whether I did it right the first time. Computer illiterate I am.

If you’ve ever had your soul laid waste by an extreme disaster in your life, then maybe you know how ugly any new day can be, how the birds chirping in the early morning can make you want to scream, how the sun just seems like an irritating ball of fire with no hope in it, no whispers of a future. The chirps and the sun and the moon and the fresh air belong to other people, to a past that people stole from you, to a life you can’t get back. They have nothing to do with the nobody you’ve become.


read…   All my stars…   Mental hell


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