https://nightdays.wordpress.com/2011/02/28/hello-world/

https://nightdays.wordpress.com/2011/02/28/hello-world/.

slinging the bullshit

Page Three

I’ve read that many of us with Asperger’s have about us — no matter how high our intelligence — a certain naïvté, to say it politely; a gullibility, to say it less so. We take people’s verbal words to us very literally, and we believe those words. This has certainly always been true of me. In the weeks leading up to moving into landlady’s newly purchased rental property, and in the first month or two of being there, landlady spewed from her mendacious mouth many things that I believed. Scales slowly, slowly falling from my eyes did not begin in earnest until we were planted on her property with no place else to go. The miracle of having had my family kept with me, kept together, slowly, one blotch at a time, began to develop little black holes of rot. By the time two years had passed, there was nothing but rot.

Here are a few of the cowflaps she threw me in those early times, which I in my Aspergian gullibility believed, and looked forward to:

           1. she and I, both estranged from our human families, would have each other to spend holidays with

           2. she would take me to see my father’s grave, who at that time had been gone for five years

           3. I would give her cooking lessons, and paint a mural or two for her

           4. the broken windows and toilet, etc, in my apartment would be fixed

           5. we would together clear out a wild section of the property to be made into a little sort of park for her clients to use

           6. my animals and I would have at least five years in that apartment. when the time came that she wanted to move her business into the rental house, an apartment for me and my animals would be built onto the side of the house. we would have “a permanent, stable” place to live.

Those are the highlights. And I believed them, every one. And looked forward to them. And not one iota of it ever happened, or was ever going to. When I’d been in her building and having a so-called friendship with her for about a month, I began to see how many lies she told in the course of an average day. Lies to her clients, to her staff, to the other tenants. And finally the light began to filter through the haze of my Aspergian gullibility: She’s a compulsive liar. She lies to everyone else, so, ipso facto, she lies to me too. And she will continue to do so. Now what. Well, that comes later in the story.

Many people over the last three years have speculated with me as to why she rescued me and my animals in the first place. We’ve all agreed that she has this Messiah-thing going on, that it swells her ego to see herself as savior. But several people have suggested to me that this deeply disturbed person bought a house and put me and my animals into it so that she could control us and own us. This was a thought I had had many times myself during my final three years as her tenant. But why, I still want to know, would it have been important to this psychotic yuppie to own and control a low-income woman and her innocent animals? The sheer love of the power? That’s the only reason I can come up with. A few people have said that envy may have been a factor too. That she envied my writing ability, and my limited artistic ability. And it’s true that while we were “friends” she did confide to me a desire to develop her interests in art and writing. She cannot draw (I’ve seen samples), she cannot write (ditto; very small samples). Maybe in her truly delusional mind she believed that by owning me, she could absorb by osmosis what she saw as my talents. Talents she desired for herself. It’s certainly a possibility.

Whatever sick internal forces drove her to save me and my animals, there was no kindness there. There was no compassion. There was no sincere wish to see me and my animals safe and secure. There was no doing good for its own sake: she expected things in return. Since I have no money, the repayment she expected was to be taken out of my heart, out of my dignity, out of my self. Over time I would realize that what was expected of me was way beyond gratitude. Slavish devotion was what was expected, and suffering with a closed mouth, and other mean-spirited and unreasonable prices to be paid for her great financial sacrifice. But at the time that she decided to buy the property and put us there, I had been shocked, as I’ve said. I asked her several times if she could handle it, as I’ve said. And I was assured that she could, and that she should buy this property, as I’ve said.

If  you’ve never known someone with this level of mental disturbance, then you’re very lucky. I bitterly report that this landlady was neither the first nor the last very twisted person to be in my life. But she was the one who set in motion the destruction of my life, knowing full well that that’s what she was doing, and sadistically enjoying the task. And if you think I never saw that sadistic joy in her face or heard it in her voice and words, then please think again.

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read…   Sehnen…    Mental hell…

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part one… landlady and crime-chick

Page Two

        no one loves the man whom he fears

                                                                ~~~  aristotle

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The fourteen months leading up to moving into this woman’s property were months of unrelenting trauma and stress. Months of stress with an alcoholic landlord in the year 2003, which culminated in a nervous collapse for me that caused me to leave my animals and go to the respite facility, sure that authorities would come and take my animals away while I was gone. The psychological bullying by this alcoholic and his girlfriend, threats of eviction, insults about my personality, had completely worn me down. I had to get away from these people, but had no place for me and the animals to go. Over months, I decided that I would just have to leave alone, and that my companions, my friends, my children would have to be left behind to whatever ugly fate would descend on them. Suicide had also been an option, but then, as now, no matter how sincerely I wanted to end my own misery, I was unable to do it.

That particular disaster resulted in us going to live with the housemate. None of my animals ended up being killed that time, but two were stolen. The animal shelter that was fostering them sent my two pigeons to a wildlife rehabilitator to be fostered, and when I found a place to live, this woman refused to give my pigeons back to me. Even when her supervisor from Mass Wildlife and Fisheries in Boston told her that they were legally my birds and she needed to give them back. Even when I paid a lawyer to speak to her about this issue. No, these birds were neither neglected nor abused. I had saved each of them from certain death, and she herself even admitted that. She didn’t like the way they were fed. Too bad. I fed them the way a pigeon-keeper had told me to. If she didn’t think that was adequate, then she should have given me a list of  things to add to their diet, rather than stealing my birds.

Seven and a half weeks after moving in with the housemate, Rick, he had died. And as his father wanted to sell the house, I had again had to start looking for someplace for me and the animals.

In December, nine days before Christmas, my nineteen-year-old nephew was killed in Iraq. I was informed of this by a cop showing up at the door at 8:30 in the morning. My human family didn’t know where exactly in Turners I was at that moment, so calling the cops was all they could think of to do.

And on January 16th, just a couple of weeks before I went into the office of the future landlady, I had been to a court hearing for the eviction, and the social worker advocate who was supposed to be on my side, had sat there and advocated for the deaths of most of my animals, so that I could find a place more easily without all those pesky creatures.

Can you empathize yourself into this mess? I’m fifty at the time, no relatives to assist me, one or two friends who do not very much at all. I have palindromic rheumatism and chronic fatigue syndrome and graves disease, to name a few of the physical issues. I also have Asperger’s, though I don’t know it yet, chronic depression, PTSD, and severe anxiety. Can you imagine how physically and psychologically beaten down I was after fourteen months of the things I’ve just described?

During the weeks that I dealt with this impending landlord (late January 2004 to April 3), she demostrated quite erratic behavior and words — including informing me on the telephone on 8 February that she was going to buy a house with apartments in it for us to live in. Another shock. I asked her repeatedly if she could truly afford to do this, if she wasn’t taking on too much, and she repeatedly assured me that not only could she handle it financially, but that there were good reasons for her to have a rental property. After telling my friend about the vicissitudes in this woman’s demeanor and behavior, my friend said this: Sounds like she’s really screwed up. Tell her thanks but no thanks. Don’t get involved with her. It was good advice, and I tried to make myself take it. Tried to go ahead with planning out the lethal injections for my animals, and then spinning rapidly, I hoped, toward my own death.

But I couldn’t make myself take that advice. I couldn’t summon the strength to give up on us only eight months after I’d walked out the door and given up on us at the alcoholic’s place. Those animals were the absolute center of my existence, the meaning and purpose, the love and sharing and companionship, the laughter and tears. They were, as I’ve said, what I wanted most in life. I couldn’t give up on us again so soon, no matter how many alarm bells were going off in my head about the impending landlady.

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read…    Stolen stars…    All my stars…

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the onset

Page One

                     I shudder when relating it.

                                          ~~~  virgil

Spite and Malice is the name of a card game I used to play with my fiancé and his mother, long ago in the dark ages of the 1970’s. I don’t remember now how to play this game, but only recall that you could be going along okay, and then there were these few moves your opponents could make that would rob you of points and cards and any hope of catching up.

rob you of points, which are treasures in card games. rob you of cards, the tools you use to try to rebuild, and you can’t rebuild without them. rob you of hope. this is what a set of people did to me: robbed me of my treasures, robbed me of my rights, robbed me of my home, and dignity, and love, and hope. I’ve named two of my blog-books now for card games. why not. life is a lot of risk, and a lot of randomness that’s commonly called luck. some people get a more or less equal measure of good and bad randomness in their lives, and some get mostly good. then there are those of us who get mostly the sour kind.

this is a true story of devilish randomness and devilish human beings, as they appeared and behaved in the real lives of myself and my innocent animals. it’s an ugly true story, like so many I’ve had to live through. it has changed me forever, and not for the better.

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how did it all start…  well, the beginning of hostility toward me by my landlady, and the beginning of my fear of her, began early in 2004, when I initially got mixed up with her. it seemed like a good thing in my life at the time, maybe even a great thing.

my animals and I were living in the home of my housemate who had died. his father was evicting us, and while he was a fairly malicious person himself, the eviction was legal and necessary for him because he wanted to sell the house. as I certainly couldn’t afford to buy it from him, the eviction had to happen.

this person who would soon become my landlady has a business, and since 1995 I had been an occasional client in that business. in january 0f 2004, four months after my housemate’s death, I again had reason to go to this woman’s office. in conversation I told her about what was going on with me and the animals: Rick’s death, the eviction, the fact that so far I hadn’t been able to find us a place and that most of the animals were probably going to be given the lethal injection. she became impassioned over this situation, said she was going to help us and that no animals were going to die. she told me to look for a small house to rent where I could have the animals, and she would help pay the rent.

I was stunned by this for several reasons. first, you don’t expect someone who only knows you casually to help you with such a big issue. second, though this woman and I had had this long, intermittent business relationship, I’d had the feeling for about three years that I wasn’t her cup of tea, that she’d be just as pleased if I took my business elsewhere. why would someone with that attitude want to help us? and third, it felt like a miracle for me and my animals. someone wanted to help us stay together, and staying together was what I wanted and needed most in life, since the other things I needed as badly were already being kept from me by other unbalanced people.

only a few months later I would learn in conversations with this woman that this messiah thing was a pattern in her life. periodically she would latch onto someone, shower them with financial bounty and make their lives (in her own mind) heaven on earth. I would learn personally about three other people she had done this with. her ego, I believe, and her need for denial and delusions, caused her to have a great compulsion towards dramatic rescues and money-spending. she needed to believe that she was generous and caring and a saver of human lives, when in fact she is none of those things. she is thoroughly self-centered, without conscience, without even one consistent set of traits that you could call a core personality. these are my own assessments from my dealings with her, my observations of her, and things other people whom she once “saved” have said. I really like the succinct way my daughter put it two years ago: she put on her jesus sandals, and then she took them off again.

because the messiah impulse did not spring from a true core of kindness and empathy, but rather from her ego’s need for drama and fairy tales, she would eventually tire of the people she saved, and then cut them loose. in one case this took thirteen years; in two others it took nine years. with me, it was less than a year. I’m a depressive with asperger’s and other weird traits, so getting tired of me goes a lot faster with a lot of people.

that day in january of 2004, when I got mixed up with this woman over the issue of what would become of me and my animals, was a day that in the moment looked like a miracle for us. within six months I would know that that wasn’t true. and over all the months and years that have wound out since that day, I have had to see, and to experience, that getting mixed up with her was a descent into a miasma of mental illness, cruelty, lies, and psychological damage to me that goes on to this moment right now, this moment typing at this computer.

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read…    Neverending solitaire…    Mental hell…

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