Maybe They Should Stone Me

Page Sixty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 20, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: in the stand of treesx

still fri 20 june 2008    Turners Falls

Back in Turners Flails again. According to recent fairy tales (or are they?), four of my cats and one of my birds are living quite close to where I now sit. But has anyone ever said, Anne, you can go and visit them. Just be polite and call ahead. No, no one ever has. Because taunting and teasing are so much more fun than kindness and mercy. Well, speaking of taunting and teasing,  the teasing, demented flake with the white van in which I and my family spent our last hours together ever, was just plaguing me in the store. She was in the row next to mine, her eyes possessed by this perfectly insane glaze, staring at what? Her eyes weren’t pointed towards me, and they weren’t pointed towards the clothes. A few inches above the clothes, I’d say. and the insane, glazed look was straight out of a bette davis movie.

There are people in this burg who often don’t seem very pleased to see me come here: I sell drugs; I beat people up; I steal; whatever. No, I don’t do any of those things, and never did. But I am weird, odd, eccentric, angry, blunt, not much of a housekeeper, always had “too many” animals, and I’m an autistic atheist. All of these non-mainstream, non-conformist idiosyncracies are tantamount to evil in this town. I am evil in the flesh, come back to haunt their streets. This town of such great rectitude that in my 22 years here, for part of which iIwas raising a child, I saw more murders, rapes, drunkeness, drugs, theft, psychological bullying, and all kinds of other ugliness, than I ever saw in the neighborhood I lived in in boston. But I am the evil to be shunned. I am one of the worst things that’s happened to turners falls in the last 23 years.


Update 9 July 2009: Those are the feelings I got from a lot of people in Turners back at the time I wrote this, but not from every person. And I was angry, and stayed angry for a long time. Everything had piled up: the 17 months of illegal harassment from the mafia-chick (which no one would do anything about); the technically illegal, retaliatory eviction; the lack of help and the laziness of the DMH and the CSS; the fact that because of a psychotic with connections and a dead grandfather with connections, I was now in this unbelievable protection situation; the “fact” that M. loved me, but sat back and did nothing to help me as a person, just did his shtyk and his job; the fact that I had lost my home and my way of life and everyone I love. It had all piled up, and I was furious all the time, for months. I’ve heard many times that depression is repressed emotion. So if I was angry for months, very angry, I am now repressing a lot of it. And for a long time I was repressing a lot of my grief. I guess I still am, because I’m in a living situation where crying is not allowed, and I very much need to cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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(emily balivet tapestry at


chan… a born spy

Page Sixty-one

sehnen posted on Jun 20, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: but death is waitingx

fri 20 june 2008   Greenfield


Instead of going red from the flash, his eyes went martian. And I got rather distorted and otherworldly with this photo, but in a strange way I like it.

Chan was one of Judah’s six children. I kept three and gave three away to two of my friends. He was one of the three cats that the “shelter” slaughtered on 24 March because “he wasn’t very friendly” (and the people in this brain-dead community think that “shelter” is god’s gift to the world). This lack of friendliness implied to these yupies at the shelter, I guess, that he was maybe mean, which I never saw a trace of in twelve years. He was as shy and reclusive as his mother, but I myself — and my friends over the years — never saw a trace of meanness from him. And yet, I hope my boy broke his normal behavior patterns and was mean as a tiger to those yuppies in the days before they killed him. I hope he bit and scratched the hell out of them — cat scratch fever, blood poisoning, the works.

His name. I stop to mention this only because for the last week I have been seeing a connection to Chan’s name a whole lot. During the fifteen weeks of my new existence that is not my life, I had until recently seen this connection, this man, only a handful of times; but in the last week I have suddenly seen him a great deal. He’s a photographer, and I’m an amateur photographer myself, but that’s not how we met. We met a hundred years ago when our children were little in turners falls, and they were friendly for a couple of years. This man has a child named Chan, and I always liked that name. Several years later my child and I started naming lots of our mama cat’s family with ch-names, and when Judah’s litter came along, I named one boy Chan after this photographer’s child.

His nature. Shy, reclusive, never mean. But Chan was a born spy. He could be clandestine and sneaky better than many cats I’ve known. When Chan wanted something — and he was a very undemanding soul — but when he wanted something, he put on this spy act to get it. Usually it was a morsel of food he wanted, and he wanted it before any dog could find it (originally there were four dogs). So he would walk quietly around the edges of things, towards the food. And this was not fear. He wasn’t skulking and acting afraid to be caught, he was just proceeding incognito, so that no other cat or dog would notice what he was doing and get to the morsel before he did. This routine made me laugh for years. If I were watching, as I often was, he’d get to the food, fix me with a very intense look, as if to say “I went to all this damned trouble. Can I eat this?” And I, of course, would say: it’s all yours, Chan.

If three very disturbed, and controlling, and fairly unintelligent (not to mention insensitive) women had not decided to tear us apart, my Chan, born the day before my own birthday in 1996, would have lived out his life in his family, in his familiar milieu. He would have continued to be allowed to be shy, to be allowed to be quiet and “unfriendly,” without getting killed for it. He would have died with me touching him, as it should be, and he would have been well loved till the natural end of his life. If, if, if.

May the people who took part in killing him get the karma that all the karma-believing people say such acts earn. May they lose all that’s dear to them. May the ocean’s dogs devour them thrice.

Update 6 July 2009: I was very angry when I wrote this. A few months after Chan had been murdered, and that’s how I see it, I was still very angry. I’m angry now, but as I’ve said, the antidepressant makes one rather flat and dull. At least, that’s one of the things that it does to me. Last week my therapist said he was going to help me find out what happened to the rest of the animals. But he hasn’t brought it up again, and I haven’t, and I guess I’m going to have to keep at him about it.

and another update 7 March 2011:  That particular therapist gave me his word on three separate occasions between June 2009 and January 2010 that he was going to do everything he could to find how and when and where my animals had died. He agreed that I needed this “closure.” He did in fact, in six whole months, make two whole phone calls. One to the smarmy priest in turners, one to someone at the DMH. That’s when he told me that I had been “screwed by the system.” That there had indeed been a plan in 2008 to put me in a certain apartment with most of my animals, after a brief period of homelessness. He said he didn’t know what apartment, or why the plan had not happened. But in January 2010 he started to waffle on the subject of finding out about the animals. We wrangled until the middle of March, when he finally said he wasn’t going to do it. Said he didn’t “believe in it.”  That’s when I stopped seeing him. And I told him exactly why I was stopping: he had given me his word on this matter three different times, and had not kept it. He had shown me that I couldn’t trust his word, had demonstrated a failure of integrity. This guy works for ServiceNet, the same organization that runs the two Massachusetts shelters I stayed in. He thinks of himself as a cut above the usual social service robot, and I thought of him in that way too for a good while. But on the day I tell him why I’m not going to see him anymore, he whines in the tone of voice you’d expect from a five-year-old:  “Failure of integrity? That’s my daily bread. People are failing in their integrity all the time around here, but I keep workin’ here. It doesn’t have to be the end of us working together.” Well, it did for me. I have never stayed with a therapist, or a friend, or a doctor, whose word I couldn’t trust, who didn’t treat me in an honorable way. Once the trust is broken, once integrity has failed, especially with a therapist, I can’t go on.

Chan: your indestructible energy out there, around me somewhere. I love you as big as the sea.

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

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anne nakis in massachusetts

Page Fifty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 16, 2008 | views: 132 | Tags: life looks newx

mon 16 june 2008   Greenfield

                                   Bill in heaven at the white star… 

***  another private message. ignore. or, if you like bill, follow him around: one, two, three, four, five.


It’s time to go on, there are still more animals to tell about. What I write in this journal about each animal is so small, so unworthy of them, that I’m always unsatisfied with it. They were much more interesting and funny and brave and good than any two paragraphs can do justice to. And if I didn’t have the stories of all the human nightmares to tell, the story of how the humans put me and the innocent in the hell we’re in today, I could spend more time on the animals, whether anyone’s interested in reading about them or not. They interest me, and these journals are mine.

Always remember what brilliant, funny, monopolar depressive, true-hearted Kurt Vonnegut said:




Update 27 June 2009: It’s still the same a year later. Nothing I can say with inadequate words can do justice to what my 14 stolen ones were, or what they meant to me, or how intimately we shared our lives, or how deeply wounded I am from the theft of them. Nothing. And there is still way too much that has to be said about the humans who have ravaged me the last 15 months: The DMH; Matthew and his words about my life; if those words were true, then the fbi as well. There’s still too much to say to defend myself against the delusional label, which is not true, which I resent, which I find an insult to my sanity and my integrity. It looks like I ran out of time on the day I wrote this. I wanted to tell about another animal, and then didn’t. When the clock on the library computer is ready to shut you down, you got to go.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonked-out Whale in a Wheelchair

Page Fifty

Monday 9 May 2010                    Turners turns on me, again

Yes, another new Sehnen post. Interrupting myself again, my copying of the old Sehnen posts onto WordPress.

I’m hoping I’ll occasionally provide examples of the way I’ve always been treated in this human cesspool. Examples from the past, and from the present. To wit:

There’s an enormous woman, whom I never saw in this town before two years ago, who rides the town in one of those electric wheelchairs. She happens to go frequently to a place that I also go to frequently. Every single time she comes in, she smashes the back of the chair I’m sitting in with her motorcar. This frightens me tremendously, even though I know she’s going to do it. I have PTSD, after all, and things like loud noises and being smashed do frighten me,   whether I want them to or not.

This obese, no-brain mountain of flesh has been doing this to me for several months, and so far I haven’t seen her do it to anyone else. The first few times I thought it was an accident, and I let it go. But she does it every time. Every time she comes in, she smashes me, and she does so with more force than she used to. She and I have no past relationship or history. I have never done anything to her. But I’m telling you in all truth that that has never mattered one jot in Turners Falls. I’ve been targeted and taunted and harassed by people whose names I didn’t even know. And don’t give me any paranoia bullshit as a response, thank you. It’s the truth, it’s happened over and over again in this town, and it’s been happening since 1985.

Last week I spoke to an employee on the premises about it, and she said that she tends to believe it’s deliberate too, since it keeps happening. She said she would watch for it, and that she’d ask the woman to be more careful.

The very next day, I’m sitting in this venue in my chair, and in drives the whale. She buzzes right over to me, with the employee close behind. Usually she smashes me when she’s moving forward, towards me, and this day she didn’t do it! Both the employee and I believed that the whale had been discouraged by the employee’s proximity, and that I wasn’t going to be smashed. Think again. She got me on the reverse, when she was backing up the chair to change direction. Not as hard as usual, but nonetheless she smashed me right in front of the employee, who looked at me with disbelief on her face that she was trying to disguise. This inbred, brain-dead, ignorant, obnoxious mass didn’t give a damn that the employee was watching her. She was gonna smash me, and that was that.

Why is she doing this? I guess she doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t she like me? I don’t know. But that’s the way it’s always been here: more people than I can count have taken a dislike to me, for reasons I’ve never been told, and many have then taken it upon themselves to taunt or harass me, to steal from me, whatever. They believe that their dislike of me entitles them to take direct action against me.

The blogs are where I come to respond to this bullying.

(part of the book Poison and Snowflake Trees)

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(st. B at

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)

~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~   Share    

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Nemo Nobis Pacem Donavit

Page Forty-four

Tuesday 13 April 2010           Turning Falling

again interrupting my copying of old posts to write a new one

On the original Sehnen blog on Soulcast, I had a post (which I haven’t yet copied here) about the phrase Dona Nobis Pacem. In 2000 I started writing this phrase and hanging it places: on the walls, on the outside of our apartment doors. It was a sort of secret way of begging the human world for what I wanted from them: to be left alone, not to be harassed, not to be stolen from, not to be mocked to my face, not to be lied to to my face, not to be threatened with this or that.                                                                        

In September of 2006, in the very early stages of the mafia-chick’s relentless, 17-month harassment, I made a mural on our porch with those words in much larger letters than I’d ever used before (a louder plea). If you came to my storm door, you couldn’t miss seeing those words: Dona Nobis Pacem.

This past Sunday I was thinking about how I’d displayed those words everywhere we lived for over seven years, finally making them larger than I ever had before, as my desperation to be left alone grew. And since what happened in the end was the demolishing of my family and everything I considered to be my life, I decided it was time for a new sign, with a new sentence. The end of the story; the result of all my secret pleas to the human world ( a resounding fuck you was the answer the world gave); a statement to the energies of my murdered animals:

                                    Nemo Nobis Pacem Donavit

So I started the poster, and it hangs over the loveseat that serves as both bed and couch in the ponystall the federal and state governments have me (a claustrophobic) trying to exist in. Since I have a few other projects going on in the stall, I can never tell how long it will be before any one of them gets finished. Depression can paralyze me for days or weeks. My physical illnesses can do the same. But the sentence is there in gold letters, and I read it to the energies of my murdered animals, and I read it to my living guinea pig, and I remember over seven years of secret, Latin pleading to be left alone.

(part of the book Being Toward Death)

~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~


Ce he mise le ulaingt?

Page Forty-three

sehnen posted on Jun 07, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: luna stellaequex

sat 7 june 2008   Greenfield

Where are you, what happened to you? How many are dead and how many alive? How and where did you die, and when? It’s been a lonely life anyway, being such an oddball, not fitting in with neurotypicals, not even being able to stomach them much of the time. But loneliest of all without you, blackest of all without you. You 14 stolen ones, and all the animals of my life before you, taught me everything I ever learned about courage, patience, forgiveness, love, trust. I didn’t learn much at all about these things from humans. I never stopped wanting you, or loving you, or admiring you, or being grateful to you. It wasn’t my idea for us to be torn apart.. All the times you saw and felt me suffering the loneliness for humans… I wish you could see and feel how much worse it is to suffer the loneliness that comes from being without you. If you could know that, then if there were ever any lingering questions about how important you were, all those questions would be answered. You, all the animals of my life, were the stars and the sun and the moon, all the brightness. Humans gave me mostly only the dark:meanness, lies, insanity, inconsistency, and more. And you gave me only light.. Remembering over 55 years of hurt and trauma, fear and anger in all the darkness humans have given me, I then look back over all of you. Ane there is only love and light and everything truly good I ever had.

Update 17 June 2009: All I can say to this post is: ditto. My heart will be saying these same things about them, the animals, for as long as I live. And it will be saying the same things about humans, as I fear them and dislike them more now than ever. It was humans that destroyed us. If Matthew’s words were true, it was humans who protected me from a bullet but never showed me an ID, did everything undercover, and seem to have used me as bait. And again, if words were true and if things I saw last year were what they very much seemed to be, it was humans who came to Greenfield to get me. You, the animals, are still the brightest lights I ever had, for 55 years. And most humans are still darkness.


Who am I to bear it? The wrong person — not strong enough or resilient enough, or hard enough.

(nest fairy at

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Ola ta Eepofero

Page Forty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 06, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: kalisperax, my lost friendsx

still fri 6 june, 2008   Greenfield

A little poem an old lady taught me a long, long time ago. It’s a poem you can say to anyone you love, and I, of course, am leaving it here for my 14 stolen friends. The verbs are all singular (like you know or care?), and I, being the fussbudget about such things that I am, should change one of them to the plural, and I’m not going to. But I do have to transliterate. That’s not something dirty. It’s something languagey people do all the time.                                        

esee may vas anyeezees
ma ti boro na po
ola ta eepofero
yatee se agapo.
———— (anonymous)


Eenay ola eleenyeeka ya sena

Loose ends to tie up, etc. The loose ends are taking a bit longer than I thought they would. Loose ends on blogs, loose ends in this existence that isn’t my own life, and other kinds of loose ends as well. Still trying to tie them up.

Some more words for my animals. I like corny old folk songs, and the older, the better. And the more versions of each one I can find, the better. I’ve heard 3 different versions of this one, all called Ned of the Hill, but with different music and different words. Anyway, I don’t know the name of the person who wrote these sad, corny lyrics. However corny you may find them, I like them, and they fit what I’ve been going through. 

through frost and through snow
tired and hunted I go
in fear of both friend and neighbor.
my horses run wild
my acres untilled
and all of it lost to my labor.
but what grieves me still more
than the loss of my store
is there’s no one who’d shield me (us) from danger.
so my fate it must be
to bid farewell to thee
and languish amid strangers.

So much waste, so much broken, so much useless struggle. It wasn’t worth it.

Update 17 June 2009: I was very depressed when I wrote this post, and angry too. I can feel little bite in some of my words. But last June I had absolutely no idea how very long it was going to go on: the wandering on streets through frost and snow and heat, and no one to shield me from any of it. If the feds were protecting me from a bullet, they were not protecting me from the homelessness, from the humiliation and degradation, from the 15 months of living a nightmare and languishing among strangers. I also had the belief still (when I first wrote this) that the DMH would help me, and that I’d get to visit some of my animals in their “foster” homes, and that I would get some of them back. Early June 2008, when this was written, I had no idea how very bad things were going to get and how long they were going to go on. And I kept myself going whatever way I could (denial, shtyk, pushing away my grief, living outdoors), because after Matthew told me “feds,” I believed without question that I would be located in a home somewhere and have some of my animals returned to me. And he knew I believed this, and never told me otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.


read…  Spite and malice Mugsy’s book

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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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