I text two things I know should make him laugh, then I said, “Bye Don.”
Dealing with so much I really never got a chance to say good-bye to my (now ex) husband.
I think the last time I saw him was at his apartment. I remember that he wanted for us to get back together, and I remember that I wanted to but first I had to get over whatever those drugs had been doing to me.
I remember one time he told me that “Lawrence” took him to a church picnic where “Lawrence” had some single women there for him to meet, to choose to date if he wished to. He told me there was one lady there that he liked, and that she’d given “Lawrence” her number to give to him at the next workday. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to make me jealous or if he wanted to let me know he was thinking about moving on. I don’t even remember what year that was, because I was fighting my own battles. And those battles is why I wasn’t ready to re-commit to our marriage. Probably the year was 2008, because I think I’d told him about what Kevin had done to me, that I’d been defiled. I don’t really remember that much of what he said. He seemed to be kind of shocked. I think he said Kevin was a fraud. Yes, he said Kevin was a fraud.
Probably that was the last time Don and I talked. I do remember that one time weeks later during one of my hysteria I started texting him. I was telling him that I wasn’t going to make it. He blocked my texts. I can’t remember how I learned he’d gotten married. Not that it mattered. If he’d have done something on the “night of the Ambien” my negative reaction would have been put into check at a hospital and I wouldn’t have gone 19 or more days without sleep.
So, really, all that happened to me afterward was from his neglect. I would never have let that happen to him without doing something. I wonder sometimes, was he taking drugs? How could he set there watching television while very odd banging and crashing was going on in the next room with me? That night really and truly broke our marriage to bits. I’m sure he regretted it but, who knows, maybe he likes this wife better then me anyway. Whatever.
But we were married for a long time, had a long relationship, and I never really said good-bye. Maybe I never really wanted to. But its been at least 8, maybe 9, years since we’ve talked.
A couple of months ago I found a picture from the newspaper of a rainbow at Safeco Field. A rainbow he and his Dad had seen there together. So I sent it to him. I wondered when I sent it off what it was like for him being married to someone who didn’t know his Dad. Probably its no big deal.
At the tap house last weekend I took pictures of our son. I decided to text them to Don. It appeared they were received but my son said Don’s phone doesn’t received pictures. So I sent a message as follow up.
Then before I knew it I was texting him all about these past years, and the hell I’ve been put through, and and and and and. And I was talking about the people in our old neighborhood, and I was wondering if his Mom and step Dad are still alive, and and and and and. I told him about where I live, and about so many other things that I thought he should know, and and and and and. And then I realized that I don’t remember ever saying good-bye.
Maybe I didn’t want to. Or maybe when we’ve had such a long history together people don’t just say good-bye, maybe we just drift away. Maybe drifting away is the way to do it.
I just don’t know.
He didn’t block my texts, and they do show delivered. He didn’t reply back, either, though. Maybe he thinks talking with me would be like acting “unfaithful.” He was always good, though, about taking emotional junk and putting it in a box up on the shelf to forget about it. He would always tell me I needed to learn how to do that. It would be great to talk with him again. But I’d be sad if his voice didn’t sound happy. And probably if we both talked happily together about the past that might be worse. For me it wouldn’t be. For me it would be good to hear he’s doing okay. and to reminisce a little. I think that he should be happy about my texts telling him that I’m doing okay. Because its his fault he didn’t take me to the hospital that night in the first place. And then there was 19 or more days after that when I did not sleep. And it was my Mom who finally responded to help me.
I just don’t know.
I don’t remember though that I’d ever said good-bye.
I don’t think I will.
Maybe I’ve forgiven him.
Right after I got here the weekend of the 4th of July, 2015 I started looking for work.
I had three goals.
- Get back to work.
- To study for getting my own brokerage.
- To repay my son and daughter in law what it cost to get me here.
Maybe I went back to work too soon. Because when I blew out my knee and the employer would not let me keep working sedentary they way the doctor said I could, and then that not having income was preventing me from finishing getting my broker’s license, I really did not handle that very well.
I mean I handled all of the paperwork wonderfully. Not that it mattered because anymore the truth is insignificant. So it seems too that their not following the rules and the laws doesn’t matter either. The idea that I went for one whole year without income from blowing out my knee at work while I was being made to perform a two person job alone was so wrong. Everyone body is doing everything wrong. No wonder we’re depressed. I handled the paperwork better than a lawyer could. But emotionally I was not handling it. Anymore I can’t emotionally handle anything.
I would love to go back to work. But everything I try to make a living fails. I don’t know why because I used to be able to work 2 or 3 jobs at once, long hours, and I was productive. Now I’m not anymore. I feel like a loser. It seems like I don’t get along with anybody anymore.
Maybe I’m expecting too much of myself, after all its just been two years since getting a break from Washington.
Its hard to believe that in 2004 the house I lived in was almost paid off, we had no debt, and could retire in two years if we’d wanted to.
Then I got in a wreck that seemed to have me depressed, so I asked my doctor about that, and life for me as it was ended and Hell began. And the doctor dreamed up a zillion reasons for why it was me and his “medicine” was not to blame. The dirty, rotten POS lying SOB.
I cannot curse him enough.
And I have time on my hands to do it, too.
And so I will continue.
Because what’s been lost, what its cost, I am too old to recover.
And they will never help me.
Instead they had me raped., and ruined my career.
There was no reason for that woman Nazarita to send those papers to Axia. I’d never made contact with Kevin through Axia or any other work email except for once, I think it 2010, and that was at Evergreen and only to tell him I’d wished he had just outright killed me, I was that despairing.
No wonder I still drink sometimes.
I guess, considering, getting bombed out of my head once or twice a month isn’t too bad under the circumstances.
I guess I’m okay. I didn’t kill them. And at the time I owned an Uzi machine gun, too. I could have killed them. Probably I should have killed them. They seemed to be expecting it.
Yep, I still do go there in my head.
Its fair and right that I do.
If I could go back to being productive, that would help.
I try but anymore I cannot seem to succeed.
I’m reading right now my old flip phone’s messages from 2015, and I can see in them what the stress of losing my home was doing to me, too.
The things I was saying were crazy. Maybe I was trying to find humor, but couldn’t. I don’t know.
I am surprised my daughter in law took me in.
I am one lucky camper, there’s no doubt about it.
I would not have started improving if I had not gotten out of Washington to here.
I would have died there, and probably very quickly, wandering alone in total hopelessness and homelessness.
And all because one day I’d done what the t.v. suggested, and I asked my doctor about being depressed.
Wow, did he ever show me what depression really is, or what?
“Here, Judy, need a little insanity to go with that depression? How about trying 19+ days without sleep? Let’s see if that fixes your depression. You do know being a doctor is hard, right?” said like Dr. Sargent, Jr.
The importance of using non technical tools to survive prescription drugging and the stalking that occurs from that and how they helped cannot be understated. Two, maybe three, computers have been lost during the course. Not lost in that I misplaced them, but lost from viruses and one time I spilt a glass of wine on the keyboard. That made me sad because the computer was a very nice Hewlett Packard with all the bells and whistles. It was kind of pretty when it melted down though, though. Colors ran on the screen and it made a funny sound like wahoooooomp. And I made a sound like waaaaaaaaaaah.
Then there was the one cell phone that I took a hammer to because of Boileau. I was just starting to settle down, had not talked with him or sought him out for my why? why? why? questions in about a week or so. And what he would do when I’d start distancing myself was to reach back again, just to make that connection and to get me going again. Yes, he’s a very troubled person. So, okay, when his number came through I threw the phone on the floor and smashed it into bits. To accuse me of stalking him was ludicrous. Even Verizon, back then, asked if I wanted them to report him on my behalf for stalking.
To that I should have said yes.
In a way losing that phone was a shame, too, because I lost a lot of evidence in it. Not that any courts or lawyers are interested in truth or evidence anyway, obviously, but screen shots would back up all that I’ve been telling. And pretty much by that time I was just saving things for myself anyway. But for every “documented” communication from me to Boileau could have easily been beaten in volume by his communications with me, despite that I kept asking him to stop it, too.
Whatever Goldhammer gave to the courts, (which I doubt they’d have destroyed those right? smh), I could give 10 times of Boileau’s communicating with me. And primarily what Goldhammer gave was just from when I was flipping out with cancer. While I was dealing with the cancer is when I first started drinking. In those days it didn’t take much for me to be drunk, and when I was I would start calling and singing Jesus songs into his voicemail. And I would send dozens and dozens, he said something like 1,000s of messages.
As far as I was concerned that was returning the intensity of his own taking over me. That’s how he came at me, overwhelming me in the beginning to gain my trust. And unfortunately that is how I did come to trust him, though.
That is the skill of a sociopath like he is. Probably he is a psychopath, though, too.
But the intensity he came at me with, and the intensity I felt from what he’d done to me was not going to be left unsaid or left made unclear by me. Yes, I supposed I was the pit bull or bull dog, even then.
And I was going at him through every phone number, every email address he had, and as he would block me I would find another way to go at him.
He deserved it. I don’t regret it. Not for one minute.
Even today I’m still emotionally suffering distraught for what he’s done. I’m still recovering from that. He got more with me then he bargained for though. I may have been cute and sweet, the way my Mom says I am for why nobody listens to me to take seriously when I say NO, but guess what! When ones like that fuck me over, they get paid back. And I’m not revengeful, either. That’s not what I’m about. I’ve about fixing their ass so much they cannot deny themselves. So, yep, I wasn’t the doormat he thought I would be. I don’t regret any of how I reacted. Not one single thing, and I’d still be going at it today and he knows it, if not for the notion of jail hanging over my head. That the cops or the courts would protect him is sickening.
So each time I would start settling down and he’d come back for getting me wound up again, let him have it. Yes, he did keep me going. He still does but now he’s not attacking me the way he used to. I don’t know why not, and I don’t really care. Its the caring where he gets us the worst.
Sometimes I wonder, but not for too long. He’s a sick and troubled man. Cute as phuck, but wow, talk about a walking, talking, writing mind fucking disaster. But I got him good. The restraining order was worth it.
Even with my rated P.G. computer filters I saw on the internet that he was taking some intimacy course with a chic named Laurie Brisbey or something like that. I was laughing so hard, and I felt kind of sorry for Laurie because I’m sure he ate her alive, too. hahahaha! Why am I even laughing? That’s wicked. What he does it wicked! Well maybe eventually she will find her way to Jillayne. Maybe so will Nazarita when she slaps herself for being so stupid. Jillayne loves us all. What a great heart she has.
But that part about me facing jail time was totally bogus. Even so, thank God for Jillayne who came to my rescue after seeing me on The Jerk blog. Because I was following the rules the court sent me, except that on the last page in smaller writing there were opposite instructions then on the front that I didn’t see. Ragnar should have seen to that’s being dismissed. Boo on him.
The rest of it all could have remained. Judge Kato was right that I would get over it enough and not want to see Kevin ever again. Which I still think it is why Kevin told the Lucerfarian Judge Fritz, or whatever his name was, that when “this is over” he wants to be sure I know he doesn’t want to see me. I think Kevin knows when I am over this I will not want to see him. But I know it is going to be the other way around, anyway, and that he will want to see me. I know this for sure. But even last night I asked my Mom if she thinks rape is a relationship or if a rapist can be forgiven to pursue a relationship and she said no.
Without correcting this with me his self proclaimed “legacy” will be made mud. I will help to ensure that it is. I have a right to tell my side of the story, and I’ve got enough evidence like I do against that doctor to establish I am not slandering people and am only telling the truth of what they do. What Kevin does is written in all his books. What Multicare and Western State do can be seen in the number of cases brought against them.
But how I perceive what Multicare did to what Kevin did is like comparing apples to oranges, even though they were related.
Our relationships with our doctors is almost sacrilegious. Booooooo booooo booooo on Dr. Sargent! Boooooooooooo.
Whatever went on with Kevin lacked all of those elements of the doctor/patient relationship. I only made contact with Ethical Lending to ask questions from the class. Yes, he baited ,but everything Kevin and Nazarita tried to duplicate after the fact about what they thought went on between me and that doctor couldn’t be done. First of all, they were wrong. Second of all, Kevin wasn’t a medical doctor. I remember when Kevin told me he is a doctor, I laughed, and said something like “yah right.” It wasn’t that kind of “relationship” to begin with. I had no idea he owned the company. The first time I saw him I thought he was just another working schmo. I figured he set in a cube somewhere in some office like I set in my own cube at work. There was no sacrilegious doctor/patient relationship going on.
Something, though that bothers me a little bit is this, that for some reason that first time seeing him had an impact. That was even before class started. Entering the class I saw him, noticed him, and thought, “Wow, this person is going to have a huge impact in my life.”
What bothers me is that that was the same exact thing I felt about my (now ex) husband the first time I saw him out our window when I was 13 years old. Is there such thing as love at first sight? I suppose there is for some of us. When Don went away into the Navy and I went away to northern California where I met and married my first husband, when we divorced he told me that I’d always loved Don and not him. I’m not so sure that was true, because there are a lot of kinds of love. And later my first husband thought I wasn’t working on our marriage because Don was back from the Navy. I don’t think that was true either. But it is true that from the very first time that I saw Don I knew he would have great meaning in my life. That was in the summer of 1968, and I remember it so distinctly even still today my first love for him has not changed even though what happened to us in 2005 was evil.
When I saw Kevin that day in 2007 it was like that afternoon in 1968 when I saw Don. I knew Kevin was going to have a huge impact on my life. When he wrote his phone number on the board, and Leslie said, “there’s your number”, I was tempted to take it down. But I wasn’t ready to pursue a relationship. I was not lying about that. But, the feeling was the same as the one I had that day the first time I saw Don, and that feeling I couldn’t shake. Maybe it was that feeling that made me trust him. I don’t know. But after I got back to the office I turned around and drove back to the classroom to get his number, after all. It has been erased from the board. As it is he did have a huge impact, and I wanted to have his number so that possibly at another time I could know him. But not yet.
You know? For all of his criticism about me living inside my head, he had no room to talk.
Maybe I’ve told this before, I’m not sure. I know I’ve written about it on Facebook. Maybe I’ve written it here too. And it is that one day I had drive up to Skagit Valley.
On the way Kevin and I had been fighting on the phone. Why were we always fighting? I didn’t know. I don’t fight with men. But he was always fighting with me.
Also, after what he’d done and being that I really didn’t know him, I was worried that he’d given me AIDS or something. So it must have been in the winter of 2008 that this happened. I remember there was light snow on the ground at the client’s house when I got there, so yah it must have been in 2008. By winter 2009 I wasn’t breathing and I was falling apart, and things were being made obvious the doctor’s old man was behind it all. So, okay, it was the winter of 2008, and snow was on the ground, and Kevin had been on the phone fighting with me…yet again.
As it happened, now that I think about it, I did read A Reason & A Season so that I realize now that is what he does. He argues and fights. Maybe to him its a sport? I don’t know. But that’s what he does. I’ve never read anything else he’s published and have only seen excerpts, but it seems typical he writes about making women feel like shit about themselves. He writes about what he’s done to us, and he writes about it in a way that is very troubling. I’m sure his writing appeals to sexual degenerates and deviates.
Anyway, I was driving back home from the clients, going through Skagit, on highway 5 south. Maybe I was just south of Mt. Vernon. Yes, I think that’s where I was on the road, just south of Mt. Vernon. Probably here I won’t be able to duplicate the beauty of what opened before me on that drive. But as it went Kevin had called again for arguing with me it seemed about his own virtue that I was struggling to believe was true.
It had become a dark, dingy afternoon when suddenly the sun burst through the clouds and the sky turned salmon and gold. The clouds were rimmed with and streaming through rays of yellow, gold and silver.
In the open glen to my left two enormous rainbows rose straight up like rainbow columns out of the green grass. The colors were not pastels but rich in cobalt, crimson, amethyst, emerald, and deep orange and yellow. Straight up they went into the clouds. All the while Kevin was arguing with me. I said “Kevin! Listen! Let me tell you what I’m seeing!” I needed to pull over to watch its unfolding! And so I did, but he wouldn’t shut up. He was in a frenzy of arguing with me, convincing me of his virtue so I hung up on him.
I pulled off the ramp to watch the rainbows. Amazingly another rainbow came. It was a double rainbow, and it arched over the two rainbow columns like a glorious rainbow crowning. I believed the Lord was with me there. I set there alone alongside the highway, taking it all in, The clouds, the amazing sun making gold and silver through the salmon and aqua skies around them. The rainbow columns and their crowning by the double rainbow. I wanted so badly for Kevin to get out of his head, to hear me and to share with me its beauty so that he could see it too. But he couldn’t. Then, while I watched God working, for a little bit I forgot Kevin even existed. And that was good.
And that I suppose is the heartbreak of Kevin. That such a beautiful man cannot see or hear the beauty that was there for him, too, if he could only get out of his own head is sad. Truly I’ve never seen nor met such a beautiful man as he is.
Yes, I was right that first time I saw him in class. I still remember it, the first time I saw him standing there watching us as we all entered into the meeting room above First American Title’s offices in Renton, Washington in November 2007. I had no idea I was meeting the devil, though. Because the last time I’d had that feeling it was over an angel. This time I was deceived.
Along the way I had to keep other non technical tools to remember. Not that it could be used as evidence, though. Because courts and lawyers don’t care about the truth. And, somehow, on my old flip phone Verizon has erased a lot of that. Or maybe I did during some emotional insanity. Its hard to say, but I thought I’d held onto those texts from 2011 where he was telling me he’d hired a mediator to help us get over our conflicts. I don’t know why Verizon deleted those. Even in an update why would what I’m saving get deleted? That has happened a lot. I’d kept the email he’d sent from Jane Austin saying I could have him, too, but Comcast deleted it.
I’ve asked friends who are women of God if rainbows like the ones I was shown that day while Kevin was on the phone were a positive sign. They said YES! I can’t imagine that anymore, though.
I wrote in my coloring book that I wanted to find the good again. I had not seen good since the prescriptions.
Before them, when my niece Jaymie was sick around 1996, I flew down to San Jose to go with her to Stanford, and while I was there every night I would sing to Jaymie over and over because each time I sang it she would ask me to sing again The Rainbow Connection for lovers and dreamers and me, until finally she would fall to sleep.
I colored the rainbows from that day when Kevin was arguing with me because I wanted to remember them, and the good they used to represent. God’s promise to us that he’sll never forsake us in anger, not ever again. I still haven’t gotten back that good. But the other night at the microbrewery with family and friends was pretty close. And maybe anymore, that’s as good as it will get for me. It was good.
I suppose the rainbows that afternoon while Kevin was arguing were for me, and not for him, nor for us. They were just for me. God is good to me that way. Me and God, we’re like this “X”, we’re an item.
Use your non technical skills to remember. That is how we survive a doctor’s mind fucking. Its how I did, because technology can be on the devil’s side. I’m not sure why it is that way, but it is.
I think being Irish and ornery helped a lot.
I am rather hard headed. My sister said I’m like a pit bull who, when I get hold of something bad, won’t let go until I’ve figured it out.
I suppose that’s why M.G. (mafia girl) prattled her stupid “spoke spoke spoke.”
She should have just shut her own big mouth, snot that she was/is. I wasn’t saying anything other people weren’t saying. If that affected her maybe she should not have been doing what she was doing to begin with. And if she had to for the family she could have at least kept it on the low key instead of wobbling around the office bragging. Sheesh! I was trying to do an honest business, for crying out loud! So, I’m the criminal here? Is there no honest business person left in this world or in this country?
Really, though, I’m not sure if I’m so much a pit bull or bull dog. Its just that I’m trying to do things right and I always like to believe so are other people trying to do that.
I’ve already written in the other chapter about what I would have done if I was the doctor. And maybe that is why I can’t be in business. Maybe I’m too honest. I haven’t always been perfect, but I’ve had to be. I’ve thought being honest was good. I’ve thought being honest reduced liability. It seemed to work for me, anyway. I’ve never had one single complain made against me for my work. Clients always loved me.
And I didn’t want to go to jail with the others. And I thought they would be going to jail. Either they would or instead they would point their fingers at me for going to jail on their behalf. You know, me taking it for the team and all of that, the way they expect to be my lot in life. Well, forget that! I’d rather have gone through what I have then to go to jail for them or for what they were doing.
When I worked at the FAA I saw how it went. Julie was the wife of a long time employee there. Even though my production was always way above her, during a meeting a slide projector was given of our production and I don’t know what nano second they dragged out to show everyone but on that slide of our production hers showed way above mine. They had to have reached the bottom of the barrel for that screenshot. Or they took the information of hers at the end of the day and mine at the beginning. And that’s politics. The employees wife couldn’t be shown up by this little nobody pip squeak, right? Never mind that the wife had another worker helping her production, too, while I worked all by myself. But that’s politics, and for her privilege I would take the hit for the team. She told me she was making what seemed to be quite a bit more money than I was, too. She also got the best computer equipment and so was her co worker while I was given two screens that did not even match up ergonomically. And that gets kind of old, especially when my production is better. So that’s what we are dealing with. Quality does not matter. Only politics does.
Well, anyway, now I’m just having a bit*h fest. I’m sure a lot of you are in the same boat. And probably I make having good standards and a hard head look unattractive. Well, certainly its proven to be unrewarding. Except that I’ve lived. Misty didn’t live. Rick didn’t live, either. And I cannot understand, for the life of me, why a philanthropic group or a human rights group hasn’t picked this up for helping put me back on my feet. You’d think at least the doctor’s groups would nudge one in my direction.
Jesus Christ, if they haven’t given me help who have they given help to? Jesus knows their attitudes. In that regard its been good having a harder head, being even ornerier than that stupid doctor and his old man. Jesus knows. I guess that’s why he gave me the job.
Judy = ornery
That notion is impossible when through prescription drugs our brains cannot even find ourselves anymore.
Anyway, here is a picture of me with the cancer. And there was more that just being there. My next door neighbor died from the same cancer. “They” had been chopping off pieces of him for years. Even, he said, the cancer in his face would eventually make him go blind. Anyway, that’s what his doctors told him.
I’m not sure if I’ve written about how I quit breathing. I think I started to but wandered off from that. But as it went, by the end of 2009 that I wasn’t breathing anymore. Not breathing made my walks dreadful. The pace slowed down, making the distance less, making me spend more time inside and less time out.
Because of the demands work I’d wandered away, too, from the treatments I’d been receiving. Life was becoming a fight with the doctor who didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. And then there was the rape, and the toying with me by Boileau. And that of Mr. Peterson’s hacking for the doctor’s old man, and and and and and and…..
So I suppose now you all know, those of you reading, what its like to be prematurely dying, done on purpose by people able.
As it went that my health started to fail I wondered if Boileau had aids. Also I wondered with the cancer being primarily in my face if he’s a carrier. Some people can be without actually showing signs of those things. When I wasn’t breathing anymore I was sure I would never breathe again.
For some reason while I was working at the Federal Aviation Administration saying “breathe” seemed to become the rage. Even in my personal life and on the internet people would, for no apparent reasons, say or write “breathe.” Maybe it was that everyone was being so stressed out by what was going on in our country through work and everywhere that everyone had stopped breathing, not only me. Whatever it was I really did not think I’d ever breathe again the way I once did.
Today I’m breathing. What breathing does for the body is amazing. No duh, right? A little O goes a long way.
When I see this picture of myself what I see is how unhealthy my hair had become. This picture was taken around June or July of 2010. after I refused the Mohs surgery. The cancer was inside my face, too. Now there are scars. The only reason there is was because I’d been too aggressive with my treatment. Rather than just laying onto the skin the treatment I’d made I was scrubbing it in, scrubbing off the cells. I should not have done that. I should have let the treatment and natural sluffing of the skin remove the dead cells. If I’d done that today I wouldn’t have all of the scars. Also I was being so aggressive that I’d gotten some of the skin infected. That was treated with antibiotics from the doctor because at the time I didn’t realize I could make them myself. Well, and besides, I didn’t know it was infection, I thought the infection was me making the cancer worse. Live and learn. Even so, better I practiced on myself than to have paid thousands and thousands of dollars to a surgeon who would cut me up the same way they’d been cutting up my neighbor for years. And he’s died.
A lot of people die with doctors. I’m really not sure what to think about that, because everyone just fricking loves those doctors. I’ve tried. Lord knows I even tried while Sargent and Boileau were killing me. But by the time the cancer was showing itself I’d had with doctors.
Where the Mohs surgeon’s office made a big mistake with me was while they were trying to convince me to go in to start the procedures the lady in the office said that if only I’d meet with him I would find Dr. Odlund charming, funny, and he would make me laugh and to feel comfortable with having the surgery(ies.)
That was the LAST thing I needed to hear. I was, like, are you kidding me? I’m already being killed by two happy go lucky crony puke doctors who charm the pants off of everyone around them with a wink, a smile, and a good ol’ slap on the how to you phucking to back. Oh, yah, I was already laughing….laughing as I hung up the phone saying, “so long Action Jackson. I’ve seen what y’all are doing to my stupid neighbor. I’d rather die on my own, thank you very much.” And I will.
In my new location, when I found a doctor, I told him not to plan getting rich off me. I have one need, and that is the stupid blood pressure pills I’ve got to take now because Dr. I’m a phucking Jack Wagon Sargent, Jr. let mine go up to 100/199 while giving me a mind prescription that just so happens to make people’s blood pressure rise. Hum, and I guess the nice and innocent doctor wasn’t responsible for that either, right? Before that my blood pressure was 65ish/132ish. A far cry from 100/199. And the cluck didn’t even notice my blood pressure was going up! I happened to notice so I said something to him. Geeeeezus!
Seriously, should that guy really be allowed to practice as a physician? I mean, seriously, come on! Wherever he learned ought to feel sorry for him to give him back the money he paid. Oh, wait! We The People paid for that. He went into the Navy to learn to practice. That’s where he got his rank and privilege.
Hating them does not mean that I’m hating myself. If anything, hating them makes me right with God’s world. Hating them doesn’t bother me at all. Actually I like it, because they deserve it. God hates their evil ways, too.
Its good to see that all but financially, on the most part, I’m back.
I’m sure the doctor’s not too happy about it, though.
Boo phucking hoo for him.
By the way, have I told you I’ve seen God?
Yep, its true. It was only this past year. Well, he did show me peeks before, but just tiny peeks, ‘lest I’d evaporate from his majesty.
Its kind of funny to me when, like last night, a fellow called God my imaginary friend, as if my seeing God makes me the freak.
Honestly, I feel sympathy for anyone who can’t see God. Its not like he isn’t there (here) to be seen.
God’s not hiding from anyone. Anyone who wants to can see him. Maybe the ones who don’t are just afraid to. I don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that anymore nothing anyone else says matters to me.
Because to survive I’ve had to go way inside of my own head. I remember Kevin Boileau criticized me by saying that I was living inside of my head. I think going there is what’s kept me alive. Also, I think it’s what’s kept me from being the kind of woman so many are who would do whatever he tells them to do.
I’m grateful because growing up my Mom and Dad used to ask, “So if your “friend” is jumping off a cliff, are you?” The answer was always, “No. I would not follow someone, not even a friend, off the cliff.” I think too much of myself to do that.
No, I never had sex with a carrot for anyone. No, I never gave Kevin Boileau a 69, nor did I participate in a 3-some for him, although he cried and whines while I laughed at his absurdity. I have to laugh now, thinking he had people believing he’s all of this and that. High society. HAH! I’ve been told it was common for Kevin Boileau to try to get people to have a 3-some with him. Maybe that’s what Dr. Sargent, Jr. was doing that night in the parking lot with Christine Monroe way back in December 2005. He sure was flipped out that I’d spotted them huddling together. I guess those doctors really work it.
Its great to breathe again. Its great to be alive after all, too. And last night many things reminded me of who I used to be that was good. The piling up of the snow sparkling outside is a wonderful sight. Yep, now its me and I’m the one walking in the winter wonderland for real.
Maybe I’ll get to the Amish country before Christmas. Or maybe I’ll wait until the Spring.
It doesn’t matter which or when. I’m alive, and I and God know the truth of the doctor’s lies. I’m glad I said no to the Mohs surgeon. That treatment sounded more like Hell than their caring to admit its being. They would have killed me, too, I’m sure. Am I paranoid of doctors? Hum, what do y’all think? Maybe you should be, too?
Matthew 10: 15 Truly I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town. 16 Look, I am sending you out like sheep among wolves; therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.17 But beware of men; for they will hand you over to their councils and flog you in their synagogues.
Last night I had luxuriously long dreams.
Maybe it was all the wine I drank.
Maybe it was the rather long conversation on Facebook with some non believers about God.
Maybe it was the sweatshop calling on behalf of the Seattle police department looking for donations that conjured in me a feeling of the past and of well being. Its been some years but I’d worked a second job with a co worker in those types of sweatshops to make extra money for Christmas.
Maybe it was having spent a couple of hours out last night trudging through the gorgeous sparkling, glistening snow. The snow that I see right now is piling up some more making it appear there will be a white Christmas so that picking up as many supplies as I did was probably wise.
Maybe it was the fragrance wafting through the little house of split peas and ham hocks heating up in the slow cooker.
Maybe it was the Christmas card’s arriving from a long, lost friend that lifted my spirits, rekindling the past.
Maybe it was seeing some people last night with much more than I have been left with receiving financial assistance and my NOT feeling resentment for that they are when I have not been being given back that reminded me of who I used to be.
Maybe it was laying down drunk knowing that although probably I wouldn’t remember much of what I’d said during the last 1/2 an hour before my head hit the pillow I believed it was true that I had not said or done anything outrageous I’d be regretting in the morning.
Maybe it was just that as I laid down my body was hurting so badly that while I mentally put on the full armor of God’s, as I do every night before I fall to sleep, I asked the Lord to take the pain away so that I might have a good night’s sleep, and he did.
Maybe it was that as I fell to sleep I felt more myself than I’ve been in a very long time, despite the wine. Yes the wine still is an addiction now. But when around the end of 2011 I began drinking outrageous amounts of wine almost every single night, now I’m down to doing that only about twice a month. I was not drunk when I triggered last week. Usually I don’t trigger when I’m drinking like that. I simply get outrageous. So, maybe, that I didn’t last night to me was good news, too, about becoming my former self. I don’t think I cussed even once last night.
Maybe it was a combination of all the above, or none of the above.
Usually my dreams are about receiving their restitution that would provide for a restoration of my life. A returning of me back to a life of financial security like I had built before the prescriptions and the group’s assaults.
Last night’s dreams were different.
In one there was Goldhammer who somehow had pulled together a forum of interested and/or thoughtful people. Most were modestly esteemed people, not too many looky Lou, and we all set in a rather small amphitheater with about 100 seats, only about 1/3 full.
I sat down from the room’s entrance towards the front right of the small crowd, facing only slightly down and looking over to the left towards two podiums.
There was a speaker at each podium with a mic.
I would not say the two were preparing for a debate, exactly. Instead they seemed to be having discussions, somewhat of a lecture for sharing their knowledge and experience. They were doing that as professional equals but with different specialties and different views.
One of the speakers, the one farthest from me, was Dr. Sargent, Jr. not looking as he appears in his pictures today, but looking like he did 12 years ago in 2005 when he was my doctor. The same was with me. I appeared to be as I was 12 years ago. It wasn’t that the time had not past, it was just that those years no longer had an effect.
As the speakers spoke to one another and to the small crowd most of what they discussed was over my head. Of course it would be. Even though I have cured my cancer on my own, my background is finance, and it is not psychology or medicine. The audience appeared to have similar backgrounds to the speakers.
Despite that, I had the impression my presence there was of importance, even if I didn’t understand it all. I knew my presence was special because at certain points being made the people would look over to me knowingly, smiling and affirmatively nodding as if I was of importance to them. Even Nazarita was smiling at me as she swished and sashayed about seating late arrivals and seeing to that people were kept comfortable. She appeared pretty pleased with the forum. For some reason I didn’t have any animosity towards her.
Dr. Sargent, Jr. did not seem to see me there. He never looked towards me, never acknowledged my presence, as if I was nobody special at all or maybe he simply didn’t remember or recognize me. And that was fine with me. He and the other lecturer in the discussion seemed to be covering some matters of great interest to the group and what that was is why I was there.
The meeting lasted for about an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. And because it was not formal during the while some questions had been offered from the audience for obtaining non scripted answers from the speakers/lecturers.
Towards the end of the discussion the two fellows were guided to amicably draw conclusions between themselves in front of the people. They seemed to be doing that very well, which appeared to bring some relief to the little crowd. The two at the podiums began shaking hands, smiling at one another, while nodding and thanking the group for coming.
As the two fellows began parting ways, the one lingered behind a bit at his podium while Dr. Sargent, Jr. started forward heading up through the aisle to exit. I remained seated, observing how pleased the quietly chattering people were.
As the smiling Dr. Sargent. Jr. became parallel to where I was seated he turned to look directly at me, and he said something very low to me that probably got lost by everyone else in their business of departing. He had a faked smile on his face and his eyes boring into mine showed his anger. I met his eyes, my own equally as serious.
He wanted me to see that despite his appearing amicable he hated me. He was not going to accept responsibility nor find his heart from what he’d done. He wanted me to know he thought I was a liar.
I felt sorry for him.
That was one dream.
I’m not going that way. If you need to tax deduct your contributions for donating to what I’ve survived….Multicare was a not for profit, yet their CEO Diane Cecchittini retired a multimillionare…. so if its a system’s tax deduction you’re looking for first….I’m not going there. Either you support ME or you support them.
I could have loved Boileau, but not like that.
I loved my husband.
And now he is gone.
It could have been different.
Boileau could have made it different.
Not the doctor, though. Sorry.
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
From up and down and still somehow
It’s cloud’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
From give and take and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life, at all ~ Joni Mitchell