Part of this is my titanic struggle not to smoke tobacco, and I fear an imminent breakdown of the fact that I have been clean since last March; part of this is my menstrual cycle is an all but sterile issue, and I am still enough in the memory of fertility to mourn my healthy femininity, and the welfare state should not be killing me with compliance. There was a woman here in Riverside Presbyterian, tall and intimidating, with dry toffee skin, bipolar, how dangerous I know not, who thundered at me, "You don't believe in God?" as if it was an insult. Amy with the face cancer telephoned me, asking me, because of my background in advocacy, to stop Debra from evicting this woman for not taking her medication. For me that was a conflict of interest, and she chased me on the Parkway. I pitied her situation, avoided contact.
Enter Jane with the dog, white, over the last twenty four months, she threatened me, has harassed countless residents, forced me to change my telephone number, and I asked why Debra Horne is not evicting her?
Anyone have any faith in state vocational civil servants who leave and take on the Protestant work ethic to keep poverty a healthy and thriving industry of exploitation?
I would do anything to go home, something I no longer have to go to, and caution that access to mental health services is not a panacea for HUD's contractual alliance with religious companies that browbeat the most disadvantaged populations.
More to the point, neither woman is or was helped by Presby, and after 27 years, I, personally, am being destroyed by women who have total access to everything I do, all the money I have; they control every aspect of my life, threaten me at will, and yes, I can give my notice, except for the fact that doing so is tantamount to putting myself physically at risk. I do not know what happened to Amy's friend, and Jane is stigmatized by most of the tenants, at least those that still utilize healthy social networks. I am afraid of her irrational antagonism, and what I was once trained to do would not help. Is it an over-magnified social fear?
I was sitting in lobby, talking. Jane came in with the dog. I told her that I was going to legal aid and asked her if she would like me to mention her concerns, offered her a hairbrush for the mongrel. She said no, caught the elevator. I started to head up, and Jane took the lift back down, followed me on the larger freight elevator, and had a violent altercation with me, in the car, at close range, and then started telephoning me at one, sometimes three, in the morning. The managers suggested I call the police if it continued, and asked me to write it up, and she has since graduated to harassing my former clients. Her triggers are possibly borderline for actual violence, and that she is now preying on people I worked to help troubles me. Neither Trudy nor Debra have any professional training in mental health, disability, or geriatrics, and as such, are not qualified to either integrate or remove the problem populations they are being paid to handle.
But Trudy, the current manager, does chart, if you like, any signs or symptoms that count as aberrations she can use to advocate for institutionalization, has done her best to make me doubt my sanity, and I am grateful to Ed for scorning that tactic, reminding me of my strength, but I've never had a vacation, never able to get away from this, except for funerals, and the independent living coordinator, whoever they are, is roughly equal in parity to the cruelty of Debra's ignorance and lack of qualifications. Jane needs mental health support, and should have been evaluated for that during her residency application, but neither Presby nor centers like these have the money to spend for personnel training. Hence, when they promote black women through the ranks, the supervisory staff is basically no more than a few steps ahead of their low income welfare residents.
If I cannot leave, safely, I will be broken beyond my ability to recover, perhaps not immediately, but soon.
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