The ugly are safe and sound

Page Fifty-nine

sehnen posted on Jun 19, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: in electric summer lightx

thurs 19 june 2008   Greenfield

There’s a great variety of ways to be cruel.

The current variety being levelled at me remains baffling, namely: why didn’t the DMH care enough about saving my life to find (in 11 months) a home for me and maybe half of my animals? Or why couldn’t they at least pretend to care enough to do that, as it’s what they get paid to pretend. I haven’t figured out the reason for that particular cruelty, though several people have suggested to me that because I made complaints to the governor’s office and to health and  human services, the DMH decided to really let me have it and allow my life to be destroyed. I can see them reacting that way on an emotional level, disliking me that much and wanting to finish me off. But they work for a state agency. Would they behave that way with the agency’s reputation? And let me say, I have never yet in my 15 or so months with DMH (though I have dumped them as of June 10) heard anyone say anything to suggest that the DMH has a good reputation (a great shame I didn’t know that before I signed on with them). But still, even if the agency’s reputation here in western Mass sucks, would the employees vent their fury on me, a disliked client, by letting me be ruined and making their reputation even worse? The answer to that seems to be Yes, despite the fact that these people are company people, sheep, teammates, and I don’t understand why they didn’t try to make the company look good, even if they despised me. This is the part of that cruelty that I find so baffling.                            

Update 2 July 2009: Another cruelty, which I was deliberately often vague about last year, was all the following and watching me certain men were doing, men who were pretending, as I’ve said, to be nuts or drunk, and they clearly were not. This had been since my first homeless day in Greenfield, which was March 13, 2008. For four more days after writing this post, I continued to make myself believe these men were working for the DMH. But on June 23, another explanation would finally take root, that something criminal was going on, and that was admitted to me by Matthew Lacoy.

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Page Forty-seven                                                                                                                         

sehnen posted on Jun 10, 2008 | views: 101 | Tags: linger breathingx

tues 10 june 2008    Greenfield

Fourteen weeks homeless, lifeless, loveless today. Three months tomorrow. I wonder if anyone reading this would deem it a mean-spirited, insensitive, unkind thing to do to shadow and crowd a person who is reclusive, private, frightened, and maybe a bit autistic. Would anyone find that a nasty, juvenile thing to do?

So Tuuschi. I’ve talked about him before. Born October 1994, 13 and a half years old when he was stolen from me on March 12. He was one of a family of 6: his parents Toby and Tessie, his two older sisters Tari and Tiki, and his sister and mate, Tammi. All these trochaic names. But ever since I read long ago that animals like and respond better to trochaic names, I’ve almost always used them. Anyway, Tuuschi was the last of his family still alive, and had lived longer than any of the others. Born crippled, his way was never an easy one, and yet I took years of pleasure in his almost unceasing happiness. He didn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed by being crippled, by the fact that he had a disability and couldn’t do simple things in the same easy way that other birds could. Well, he didn’t know it, did he, that other birds’ legs were formed normally and that for them, every movement was easy. He had to devise alternate ways to do these same simple things. He would hang upside-down from the top of his cage with his less-crippled leg, and he thought that was a great trick. So did I. His whole family had hung upside-down, but most of them could use two legs to do it, and Tuuschi and his dad were the ones who did it the most and loved it the most. Lovebirds are by nature somehow more bubbly than most other birds. Something about the shape of their beaks and the light in their eyes makes them look like they’re always smiling, even in the moment of death. But Tuuschi was bubblier and happier even than most lovebirds, and a great, great treasure, as all purity is.

He loved his Tammi, until the day she died. His need and desire to bond was so great, that even after twelve years with Tammi, he was willing to make a new bond. Not all birds will. Some birds just fade away after a long-term bond ends. Things were very bad with the landlady and the crime-chick at the time that Tammi died, and I didn’t want to get another lovebird, a new animal to come to the garbage and uncertainty my poor animals and I were trying to get by in. Enter the parakeet, whom we already had. I put their cages side-by-side, very close, and eventually the friendship was formed. To a much greater degree than I’d dared to  hope for. They took a great delight in each other.

I’ve written on another blog about Tuuschi’s love of bells, so won’t do that again here. Of all the memories of my stolen Tuuschi that stir the pain, the grief, the anger, it is often remembering him with bells that evoke these emotions most forcefully.

Update 24 June 2009: I imagine Tuuschi has been dead for some while, he was so old. The last of his family, and I was not with him when he died, and I don’t know the date or the place of his death. Supposedly he was adopted by someone in that damned Polish church in Turners Falls, and I’ve never been allowed to know who, and I was never allowed to visit him, because these turnersites exhibit so much goddamned christian kindness. I was supposed to see him, to see all of them to the end of their lives. That was my duty as their friend, their human mother; a duty I loved and wanted to fulfill.

What I was writing about in the first paragraph of this post was the group of men who had been watching me and following me since I first came to Greenfield last year. They were all pretending to be loopy, and I could see in their eyes that they were sane and sober. Matthew was one of them. I thought the DMH was doing something ridiculous by having these men watch that I didn’t kill myself after having lost all my animals. I thought the DMH was trying to mop up the mess it had made by having a year to help me save at least some of my animals and doing almost nothing to that end. And where were they getting the money for this? This post was first written on June 10. It wouldn’t be until June 23rd that I would decide it was something criminal. And when in the next few days I asked Matthew about this, he said yes.


(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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


Page Nine                      (still copying originals)

sehnen posted on Apr 22, 2008 | views: 212 | Tags: all wishes come truex

Still and again, Tuesday 22nd…. (April 2008) this time in turners

Well, I’m not in Kansas anymore…  I’ve taken a bus, come to the town where it all happened. Where the sheriff came and made me leave what was our home. Where a couple of men pretending to be doing things they weren’t really doing made me sign away my animals, my family, under duress and very much against my will. After my first homeless night of almost no sleep, in physical pain from my immune system. I’m sure it’s probably not legal, that paper. But of course I can’t afford a lawyer. This is the town with all the memories in it. It’s called Turners Falls. Nice-sounding name, isn’t it? Well, names can be awfully misleading.

I have a Chinese lie on my finger. Don’t get in an uproar; I know all people tell lies, so I’m not singling out the Chinese. But this lie happens to be in Chinese, engraved on a ring I bought while my animals and I were still together. “All wishes come true”, it says. Well, they didn’t.

Update 24 Sept 2008 — There I was thinking it was the DMH. March, April, May, most of June. But on June 23rd I pulled a lot of crazy stuff out of the file folders in my brain and came up with: the law, the cops. And Matthew Lacoy admitted it to me when I confronted him with what I thought. That was around 26 June in 2008. So it was indeed the DMH orchestrating the destruction of my life, but others were messing it up on other levels, and I didn’t know about them.

Update 19 May 2009: Saw Matthew twice yesterday, once in a grocery store in the afternoon, still walking very briskly and sanely, if somewhat angrily. He passed me by about 4 times and, like yesterday morning, would not even look at me, much less speak. Love. Were decisions made during his two-week absence? Was one of them that I now do not exist?

If Matthew is an undercover drone who told me truth about my life, or if he was only a cruel stranger who told me lies, doesn’t change the fact that I fell in love with him. I worried about him when there was shooting so close to the house I lived in. Sometimes it would take days to see him again and know he was all right. I worried when cruisers and their sirens went down near his house. I worried when he looked as if he hadn’t slept for two days. All that was in July and August 2008, when I believed most strongly in his love, and loved him back. If he’s a liar, then I have been dumb to believe him and dumb again to fall in love with him. And even if he is indeed someone protecting me, I was dumb to fall in love with him. His variety of love seems to have no caring in it, had no desire all these months to help me, had no will to buck his superiors in what they were having done to me, if in fact all this protection and federal stuff is true.

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read…    Braon…    Mental hell


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Page Eight

sehnen posted on Apr 22, 2008 | views: 213 | Tags: helpersx                                             

still tuesday 22nd… april 2008

Time for one more poem. This is Number 6.  They don’t have titles, just numbers.

                      I can see your backs
                      fleeing the scene
                      fleeing the scene of my collapse.
                      You don’t see my face
                      withering into cronehood, agony,
                      and the cold ground.
                      You won’t face my face
                      that you left in a gutter to rot.
                      You give me only your backs,
                      your bureaucracy buttocks,
                      and your bottomless fountain of lies.

I wander the streets as long as my sick body, my raging immune system will let me. I do this so I won’t have to go back to a sleeping place that doesn’t have them in it. My family, the animals.

If you care about someone who has mental health issues, I ask you again to keep them away from the Mass DMH. It’s a state agency, so they’re everywhere in Massachusetts. Keep away. Getting mixed up with them was the worst mistake I ever made, and I’ve made some big ones. I lost everything.

Update 18 May 2009:  It was a psychiatrist in New Hampshire who told me last August that what the feds seem to have done to me was illegal. He was evaluating me and I told him that when he heard my story he’d call me delusional. He didn’t. Instead he said: “They’re not supposed to use you as bait without your consent. That’s illegal. But if the feds breaks the law, what can you do?” Now, maybe the guy was just shining me on. But at the time I took his words at face value, and it was the first I ever heard that using me to catch Matthew’s “big fish” without my consent might be against the law. That’s when my thinking turned much angrier and much more desperate, to think that a good portion of my suffering was at the hands of lawbreakers who were no better than the criminals they chase. The idea that I was bait came to me on my own. As I got the words from Matthew over July and August of last year about death threats to me and people protecting me, and them wanting to catch those “big fish,” I thought: Weren’t they  supposed to put me in a home and protect me? And if they didn’t do it that way, if they put me on the streets, then I must be bait. I’d bring it up to Matthew, this concept of me being bait, often. He never either agreed to it or disputed it. Not until a couple of weeks ago, on May 3rd. I was talking to him about being used as bait, and he said, “If that’s what they did.” Implying, I suppose, that they didn’t. But there was no offer of an explanation as to what they did do.

Besides, Matthew’s stance this year has changed dramatically. I’ve only been back in greenfield since 23 April, and he has had me to his hovel on 27 April and on 3 May. The attitude now has been adversarial in ways that it never was last year. He’s impatient and mean-spirited most of the time. So much for love. Maybe I’ll have a drink and toast his constancy.

In any case, it’s entirely possible that the Department of Mental Health were not the only butt-brains that I had in my life when I first wrote this post.

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read…   Shadowpoems…   Scealta liatha

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

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it’s all about control

Page Four…          (from the original Sehnen on Soulcast)

In 2010, time-travelling back to the Sehnen post for thursday 17 april 2008, in greenfield:

The Department of Mental Health was supposed to help me PRESERVE my mental health, not to destroy it. And to preserve the lifestyle of my choosing, one would think, since my lifestyle was not illegal. But what I got was control. THEY decided where they thought I should live and what they thought I should pay for rent and how. THEY decided what should happen to my animals. THEY decided that the long police log on record with complaints made by me concerning harassment from the mafia-connected, drug-dealing tenant in my building was a pack of lies or delusions on my part, and that the things I said this tenant had done weren’t true. They didn’t LIVE there with this psychopath, mind you, but THEY decided that I was the psycho one, making up, or imagining, nasty things about the other tenant. And none of these people are trained psychologists, by the way.

So the DMH — with their laziness, their armchair diagnoses, their lack of any particularly intelligent thought, worsened my depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder tremendously by allowing my life to be destroyed.

read…  Lifelines…  Poison and snowflake trees

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