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The Collapse, Part 2
Update: 4/23/06
DIANA CHERIE STEPHENS, 56, of Honolulu, died Aug. 9, 2005. Born in Missouri. Retired state social worker; former state medical librarian. Survived by brother, Flint Mitchell. Service pending. Donations to The Life Foundation or Institute for Human Services. Arrangements by Ultimate Cremation Services of Hawai'i.
My sister died in August. I didn't hear about it until early October.
I didn't even have time to feel any grief. I was told by my cousin that my sister had written a will in 1998. I got nothing. This friend of my sister's got everything.
I can only think of one reason why my sister did that: she knewq that without a will, I would get everything. She specifically wrote her will so that I would get nothing.
And what was the source of her anger with me? It's like the old Smothers Brothers sketch: "Mom always liked you best!" My sister didn't realize that that 'extra attention' merely got me more abuse.
It's odd how my sister pretended to love me-- and then did what she did. She could have left me something, some token that said that all of the years of abuse we both took from our mother were not in vain.
Other updates will be made in a few weeks. Suffice it to say that life has taken on a predictable monotony. I feel more and more like an observer of my life rather than as a participant.
Update: 3/19/05
It's been three months. The place is an improvement over my past situation, but there are some disadvantages.
When you don't have any credit, you have to get bottom of the barrel lodgings. And bottom of the barrel lodgings means bottom of the barrel people.
I share a basement with three other men. We each have our own rooms, and share a common kitchen-like area, and a bathroom.
I say kitchen like because there is no stove or oven there. There is a refrigerator, a microwave, a table and chairs (which no one uses) and a very tiny sink.
The place was adapted from a regular basement to make it into rentable rooms. At one time there was a washing machine and dryer there: you can still see the connections for both.
The place is dark, and at times the sewer either backs up, or the gutters flood, meaning that there can be a small flood in my room or in the kitchen area.
My next door neighbor is an alcoholic who has to get drunk every single night, without fail. By my estimates, he drinkls about a case of beer every night. He usually has friends over, and as he gets more incoherent, he gets louder. I remember him asking one night, in a loud voice, "What about Condoleeza Rice?"
He smokes, by my estimates, about a half a carton of cigarettes per night. The place always reeks of cigarette smoke.
And he plays video games, usually all night. When he gets good and drunk, his friends wage bets with him who will win the games. The evenings usually end when he kicks his friends out. Or it could be that he has an internal counter, and when he says the F word a certain amount of times, the evenings end. I can't figure out which.
"You don't know what's going on. I know what's going on. You're a fat mother f'er." is a typical conversation for him. He throws tantrums when he loses his video games.
And every night his friends come back. One friend is his brother, who also has a wife, a home, and a family. Now why in the world would anyone want to leave home to be with someone like that?
Another friend is a neighbor here. The guy is usually quiet, one of those types that can talk faster than he can think.
This is a place for failures. I get the impression that all three of the men that live here have had failed relationships. They work, they drink, they eat and sleep (rarely any vegetables, mostly meat, TV dinners, fast food and so on). They exist, but they don't live.
And here I am, on my computer every day. I got a satellite dish (through much wrangling, since my credit is shot). I eat a variety of food, and most of what I eat is made from scratch. I write, I make things-- I create.
It occurs to me that they have as much contempt for me as I have for them.
I have been dating that woman from the nursing home. She is very religious. She wears long dresses, nop jewlery, no makeup. At the end of each date we engage in intense, hot, steamy-- hand holding.
And you know what? That's just fine. If you care about someone, then you have to respect their wishes. No sex, or for tht matter, no kissing before marriage? OK,if that is what you want, that is fine.
Sehe is beautiful, with a wonderful, childlike personality, and a giggle tht pops out with hardly any provocation.
The dates are no pressure activities. There are real feelings involved. There is no worrying about what is going to happen, what I should do, and so on. We can be ourselves.
And, far better, no busybodies watching from the sidelines, spreading rumors about us.
Life is tolerable, at least on that front.
On another front, I called that woman who stole everything I owned from me. I figured that maybe her bleatings about honor meant something. I asked her when I could pick up my stuff. She said, essentially, never.
What is her reason for ripping me off? It doesn't matter. Why should it matter, after all? Think of how horrible this world would be if everyone that we trusdted could steal from us with impunity, if they could only come up with an excuse for doing so in their own eyes.
She has apparently either given everything of mine away, stolen it, or thrown it away-- or, more likely, a combination of the three.
And the peculiar thing is that she feels no guilt. She had the same belligerent attitude that some people have when bill collectors call them-- and for the same reason.
That is, this was her admission of guilt, roundabout as it may be. She knows she is completely in the wrong, but she figures that if she throws enough attitude at me, I will just go away.
Recently, I bought a rotary tool from a mail order company. It's been a long time sionce I held a power tool in my hands. It's something I have missed. I plugged the thing in, turned it on-- and nothing.
Finally, I figured out the problem: the AC adapter didn't work. I got another AC adapater I had and did a standard solder, twist and tape. The thing works perfeclty now.
I miss those projects of old, where I would go to a bunch of hardware and electronic stores, and weeks later, after working in my workshop for several hours a day, I would come up with a set of stereo speakers, hand crafted jewelry, and so on.
As the weeks go by, I will list my projects. Right now, I still am in the process of assembling tools and materials.
I have a sense of purpose, finally. Just existing is not my way.
Update: 12/20/04
I found a place. It's not the Taj Mahal, but it's within walking distance of an Aldi's, a bus line, and two thrift stores. Good enough.
I gave the landlord the money. I'll be moving in on 12/27. It's a "rent by the week" place, actually a room in someone's basement. But anything would better than what I have now.
Finally, the end of my stay in Nightmare World.
I probably won't be on the internet for a while, until I get phone service set up at the new place.
The thing that started my main reason to leave started last week. There is a woman that works at the home that I have gotten quite close to. We never did anything improper, but we did spend a lot of time together. No dice, said the home. They didn't even want the appearance of impropriety. So essentially I could no longer have contact with her while I was at the home.
Well, now I'll be free. She can see me or not, as she chooses.
The sheer perversity of this situation is amazing. In the Real World, two people caring about each other is considered a good thing. But not here.
Perhaps the analogy is a bit overdone, but this all reminds me of the novel "1984." Really, when you strip off all the political and science fiction elements of the novel, it's a love story, about two people who are not allowed to love each other.
The final bit of perversity: the person that told my friend we could no longer have contact with each other in the home is the same person that told me that he wanted to see us have a serious relationship together, once I got out.
This all started with a lot of gossip from other staff members at the home. This woman and I were always proper. We never did anything that would even remotely raise an eyebrow. Yet the rumors flew anyway: that we made out with each other each night, that we were going to get married, and on and on and on.
The very same people that I liked and had so much respect for (the nursing staff) were the ones spreading this malicious gossip.
Please allow me another overworked metaphor: these people were putting one arm around my back, and stabbing me with the other one.
There is no privacy here. I get asked "Did you have a bowel movement today?" more often that I get said "hello" to.
My favorite invasion of privacy: One of the aides saw a specimen I had left for an examination. With a very loud voice, almost to make sure others heard, he said "I don't know why you need to get your urine tested. It's clear as all get out." Lovely, just lovely.
In a way, I will miss some of the people here. I'm "safe" here, in that my medical needs are attended to. But it's the safety of a bird cage, and I'll be happy to get out.
Update:11/8/04
It's been close to two months since my mother died. The vultures are still circling overhead: the lawyers haven't quite got their fill of what money is left.
At first, I had assumed that the estate would go through probate, I would get my share of the money, and I could then move out of Nightmare World. Not so.
I understand that if I take the money, I will lose my SSI payments and Medicaid. So a trust will be set up. I have to go through either my sister or a social worker to get any money from said trust-- that is, when said trust is ever finalized.
With the trust, I will be able to keep both SSI and Medicaid, as well as qualify for subsidized housing. Without it, not only would I be ineligible, Medicaid would likely take all of the money to pay for my medical bills.
But here are the bad parts: I can't just get money to buy things. I have to go through my sister and/or a social worker to get the money. And I can't just buy anything. It will be like shopping in the Soviet Union: I will have to get a price on what I want to get, contact myu sister and/or the social worker (apparently that has not been established yet), have them write me a check for that amount, and pay for the items I want. I can't get cash at all.
Here is where it gets even worse: I can't buy anything covered by SSI. That essentially means I can't use the money to buy food, rent or utilities. I can get cable TV (but not use it to pay my phone bill). I can buy a car. I can buy furniture. I can buy tons and tons of cooking appliances, but not the food to cook in them.
There are further restrictions. I can use the money to go on vacation, but apparently I can't use it to pay for going to a sci fi convention, if I sell stuff there. I can use it to buy a computer, as long as it's for amusement, and not for business.
I can use the money to go to the movies or to restaurants-- but again, I can't see how I can do that.
In other words, I can't use the money for anything useful. Just frivolous crap I don't need, for the most part.
Oh, the car? That would be nice. But I won't be able to buy gas. Imagine if you will trying to arrange in advance the funds I need to get gas. I'd have to pay for gas with my SSI income, if and whenever that kicks in.
So, essentially, I can't get the money because Medicaid will confiscate it. I can only spend it on crap I don't need.
What this all really means is that I'm stuck here, probably for the rest of my life. My sister is talking about getting me into a group home at first, but I think her whole plan is simply keeping me here (I suspect it's her resentment over my allegedly being our mother's facorite child-- all that "favorite" status just brought me more abuse).
Really, I have no inducement whatsoever to accept the money. I'd be just as well off to tell my sister to put it in a pile and burn it. I'd get far more pleasure out of watching a videotape of it burning, than in trying to stand on my head ands jumping through hoops to get it.
My mother is finally accomplishing in death what she couldn't do in life. She tried to rape me twice when I was a child. And she's fucking me up the ass now.
The collapse, part 1
Escape From Nightmare World: the Recipes (redcipes from my time here)
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