Diary of a Marked Woman

Diary of a Marked Woman


Paris, May 2005


Monday the 2nd: "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom..." Sorry but in Paris the chestnut trees blossom in May, not April, and it's really beautiful: ten inches tall cones of dark pink, light yellow or pure white flowers standing against the dark green leaves. Too bad I can't ride my bike to the Bois de Vincennes. Too bad I can't ride my bike anywhere. Anyway my bike is gone. Someone sawed off the iron bars it was attached to since the New Year's Eve attack.

My leg isn't doing too well... I still can't put much weight on it and I walk on crutches. Getting the crutches was, thanks to my mom's obstruction, a ten-episode headache that ended only two weeks ago. At least I can go out. Cooped up in my apartment I was going bonkers. Now I go downstairs the way hedgehogs have sex: very carefully, since the staircase is tricky even for people with two healthy legs.

The eye torture continues. You wouldn't think the invisible sadist would give me a break while I recover from my leg injury, would you? And since January first, it's no longer only my left eye that's being tortured, but my right eye too! That's the New Year resolution of my tormentor.

About a week ago I called up my mom just after an eye-attack left my eyes drenched in tears and asked her to please stop. She was fiercely indignant right away and asked how dare-I accuse her when she never stopped supporting me through thick and thin (I'd like her to give precisions about that because my impression is quite the contrary), she said that it must be the drugs (what drugs? I quit taking cocaine fifteen years ago, and pot ten years ago with a one-year relapse that ended in May 2003). Then she said "So quit bothering me" in a very angry voice and she hung up..

If she were innocent I don't think that she would have reacted that way. If I had a daughter who was being tortured in her bed and awakened from her sleep several times every single night I would move heaven and earth to find the cause and make it stop. But my mom thinks she can fool me with just words, that actions don't matter.

A few days later, just after one of these attacks I called her again, not knowing what else to do, and left a message on her answering machine: "You brought me into this world, you gave me life, so stop making it so rotten for me and STOP TORTURING ME. STOP TORTURING ME. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? STOP TORTURING ME."

Then recently it dawned on me that though she denies it, she is inflicting this torture on me as a NEGATIVE REINFORCEMENT to make me take down my website. In other words, she'll keep torturing me until I take it down. She won't say it because she would have to admit doing it in the first place, but she knows that sooner or later I'll get the message. She doesn't want to address the issues I raise in these pages, the terrible crimes she committed against me because the evidence against her is overwhelming. But she's worried that my website will tarnish her repute. What if her friends ask her about it? She failed in her five-year attempt to pass me off as a kook. She can't say I'm mentally ill so what explanation is there?

Would she consider paying me damages for, let's say the excruciating tooth-aches I suffered between the age of seven until almost all my teeth had root-canals done at age 45? Would she reimburse me the money I spent in dentists'offices for twenty-five years to repair the damage she and this dentist-devil did to me when I was 3 or 4? How much for a raging tooth-ache? How much for the discomfort when eating, the self-consciousness when smiling? The loneliness?.

How much for the gang rape? How much for the twenty years of mental and emotional anguish and torture because I was crushed by a feeling of guilt the origin of which I didn't know?

She still doesn't let me have my inheritance but has absolutely no excuse. She and my sister Sophie made up a fake court case where my sister is asking for an accounting to prevent me from doing just that, but there is no court case! She says no money can be disbursed as long as the case is going on but I asked who said that? Is there a court order against paying me my share? Of course not! And if there are irregularities in the accounting, why should I be penalized when I had no control of the monies? Mom'll say with a straight face that this is what Justice does, that is, an injustice.

So I say, "Mom, let's talk turkey!" And then if I'm satisfied I'll SELL you the rights to my story. And when you've purchased them in hard cash, only then can you do what you want, and you'll have the right to remove it from the internet.

Sat. the 7th:There are two kinds of eye-torture: one is where it feels like an ice-pick is driven through my eyeball followed by a burning sensation that can last up to twelve hours or more, forcing me to spend the entire day in bed with cold compresses on my eye. At room temperature, the compresses sometimes feel intolerably cold, which indicates that my eyeball is very hot indeed.

So the routine is that at the moment I want to get up I get a blow to my eye(s) and am forced to lie back down again, and there goes the day....

The other kind is another very sharp pain, like broken glass bits under my eyelids when I open them upon waking up. So of course I close them again, reaching blindly for the compresses of chamomile tea while the tears stream down my face. So I lay down two or more hours doing nothing but wait for the pain to go away, and just when I think I can go up and open my eyes again, if I'm not careful to open them millimeter by millimeter, another load of "broken glass" incapacitates me for another two hours or so. So the entire day can elapse with me doing nothing but attend to my pain.

In the mean time, "The Torture Never Stops" How appropriate. Torture's in the news.

Homebound since the beginning of the year I have done a lot of needlework: Sashiko with authentic Japanese indigo ("ai") cotton and thread, and Blackwork embroidery. Then I ran out of supplies. No more indigo cotton, no more embroidery linen, but I had two spools of white cotton for crocheting so I crocheted five doilies in white cotton during the month of April alone. I always wanted to understand the symbols on pattern magazines so I tried and succeeded after two humbling experiences: Instead of starting at the center of the circle with 24 "brides" I started with only 23 and two hours of work later, when the circle had to be divided into eight segments, I realized my mistake. Another mistake cost me an entire day of work. But these were learning experiences. I had a lot of nervous energy to spend and crocheted it out of my system I guess and, having learned my lesson the hard way, from now on I TRIPLE CHECK the number of "brides" at the center when starting a new doily.

Someone knocked on the door around 6:30PM. I had just gotten up and was in my night dress, unwashed, yearning for a good cuppa joe. I asked who it was and when Sophie said it was her I said I didn't want to see her. Why does she keep coming without making an appointment by phone first? When I came to see her I always called first and we agreed on a time convenient to both. Why can't she observe the most elementary rules of politeness? Does she want to "surprise the wild animal in her den" to have a better chance at killing her? One thing is sure is that she knows how to choose a time when her intended victim is at a disadvantage, like she did when I returned from the US for instance, and exploit the situation to her (and Mom's) maximum advantage: in two and a half months she managed to separate me from my lawyer, she engineered a bogus lock-change to give our mom an excuse to change the locks to my apartment (it's completely illogical because Mom had no claim to my keys) so being locked out and without money except what Mom would consent to give me, I was forced to sign the settlement of the estate that was so disadvantageous to me and without having had a chance to check any accounts. And both of them, Mom and Sophie keep trying to make me believe that they are at each other's throat but in fact their actions have been carefully coordinated for many, many, many years. Actually I think Sophie made herself quite a nest-egg being Mom's snitch.

I haven't seen this movie, the Exorcist, but I believe there is a sequence where some green goo is pouring out of the girl's mouth. When I hear my sister speaking, I have the eerie impression I'm hearing some similar disgusting substance, because to make me believe that she is on my side, she "bad-mouthes" the rest of the family, in particular my brother Norbert and mostly Mom. I don't enjoy hearing disparaging things said about anyone, even someone I have problems with. I think it's cowardly to disparage someone who isn't there to defend him or herself. But she has no other way of playing "I'm your friend" so all I hear is her disdainful, spiteful tone of voice accusing our mother of outrageous (untrue) behavior, as if there were any need to make up outrageous stories about her! Believe me, the plain truth is outrageous enough! But if I can put in a word edgewise -because her logorrhea is quite hard to interrupt- and voice a particular grievance of my own, Sophie immediately, instinctively takes mom's defense!

Sun. the 22nd: Since I've returned to the internet spots of the nabe on April 25 I've experienced the same harassment as last year: at the ACT spot on Tolbiac a couple of Yankees sat at the computer next to me and spoke very loudly -in English-. They were constantly repeating the same word: "Affidavit". Then I went to the KIS spot that's closer and another couple of Yanks sat at the computer in front of mine some evening and they talked nonstop for some time at a volume of voice that is incompatible with the tranquility one expects when surfing the web. I don't think they were using any computer at all, because they were just laughing and talking all the time! I don't know, but if I were an American Citizen in a foreign country these days, I'd be careful to keep a low profile.

And by the way, I can't say how relieved I am that I never became "a citizen" as they say in the US, as if "a citizen" (as in "Are you a citizen?)" could only be American (so I replied "Yes, I am a citizen, of France.") Natch. So I was an illegal alien for fifteen years, even more, but I would hate to be a legal permanent resident of the US now, considering what's become of this country. Hey you all assholes US citizens do you hear? You can have it your goddamned country! And please stay there, don't cross the Atlantic or the Pacific, please, and give the land back to their original inhabitants. Anyway the Mexicans are taking it back de facto and all your complaining won't change it. Serves you right.

= = = = = = = = = = =

Some nights I've returned home quite late, after midnight, without worrying about being attacked. What kind of slime would dare attack a woman on crutches, really? The first night a man came up to me from behind and asked me where the post office was, when I'd been at the post office earlier, and he walked next to me for a while. It was too late for the P.O. anyway and I asked him to leave me alone. Another night around 12:30, walking on the sunken sidewalk in fron of the school, I passed a man sitting on a bench who was chewing energetically, then one Saturday night around 2 AM I saw there were two guys sitting on that bench in front of the school so I chose to walk on the traffic side of the street. So the next time I came out late, from the traffic-side I saw below me, as if to tell me not to worry, no longer a couple of guys but two women, one of them wearing a suit and holding a sheet of paper. How innocent-looking! Oh, allright, Mom, next time I'll walk home this way, promise.

The first few times I left my apartment and hobbled down the two flights of stairs my neighbors came out right after me. Once it was the adult male, Hakil, with a young man, and I kept them waiting behind me without getting flustered, another time it was the young girl Camilia who sauntered downstairs and waited behind me. So I moved away the crutch I was not using but holding horizontally to make room for the girl. Since I have to slam the door very hard to close it, they had to hear it, so if they were not trying to surprise me, intimidate me hoping that I would fall, I wonder why they came out of their apartment just after me.

All this shows how desperate my folks are to get rid of me. The last few times we spoke my mom could only admit that it was NOT an accident, that it was an attack, and that she saw that my left leg was balck with bruises, because I've got medical certificates that prove that in mid-february this leg which was on top when I fell, was still heavily bruised, proving that these bruises were not accidental but were the result of my assailant's efforts to break my left leg.

So since it was apparently the goal of the operation, I have to delve into the hypothesis where my left leg had actually been broken. Then the fracture would have been open because of the footrest acting as a lever, and with an open fracture there is blood-loss and damage to muscle and skin and blood vessels, risks of infection... altogether a much worse situation than the one I managed to escape with. Like in 1990, I averted catastrophic blood loss by miracle. Thank you God. But what did my Mom want me to have an open fracture for? To make surgery a necessity, so that I could die during surgery by some "unforeseeable" (my foot) turn of event? An "accident" during surgery, so to speak? I don't see any other explanation.

= = = = = = = = = = =

I got totally fed up talking to my mom pretending we are on good terms when I know that anything that is good news for me is bad news for her, knowing that she will use to my detriment any information about me that I volunteer, like a speck of intel, knowing that even when it looks like she's doing something FOR me she is FIRST doing some self-serving business. Like for instance when she had the toilet replaced soon after my return from the hospital, I knew it was not out of compassion but to make the evidence of sabotage of the water pipe disappear.

And also I've had it up to here answering the questions that she already knows the answer to, and that she asks only to make me believe that she's not eavesdropping on my phone.

And after asking her -in vain- to stop torturing me, I can't stomach talking to her any more. Or I'll have to address her in a form that puts some distance between us. Not call her "Maman" anymore but "Madam" and forbid her from using pet names for me, and most of all "my" this or "my" that because I'm not hers. Then the emotional strings won't be pulled and it will be easier to speak rationally.

She hasn't put any money into my account this month and I'm broke two weeks before the next RMI transfer. It's really very mean of her to stop her financial help, small as it was, at a moment when I'm physically handicapped and have extra expenses because I can't cook nor use public transportation.

Oh, I got me a used PC and HP laser printer, all for 233 euros, from PC KADO.COM. All this digital race is giving me a headache. Megahertz, gigabytes, blah blah, gimme a break. We thought we'd save time but we, users, need to understand a few concepts just to grasp the different levels of performance of our machines and it does take a lot of time to get an education. I think that putting all one's eggs (everything you can do with a computer from word-processing to photo-retouching to downloading music in MP3 format) in one basket (Microsoft XP or comparable multimedia operating system on a single PC) is not such a good idea because if something goes wrong and your computer gives you a blank stare instead of loading up the operating system, then EVERYTHING is held hostage to the damn thing, and since you want to fix the thing yourself before forking over the minimum intervention fee of a professional, you may have to spend dozens and dozens of hours reading books or surfing the Web, reading constructors' FAQ's, joining forums to make a proper diagnosis and find the solution to your problem as happened to me with my little 2001 Celeron Toshiba. So methinks, to hell with the dream machine that always has a bug. Nothing like an old IBM PC (not even that old!)

Sat. the 28th I was thinking last night that one reason my parents hated me so was, maybe, that I proved them wrong on their claim that we were all, in the family, congenital criminals and that there was no way to escape that fate. At the same time we went to school and rec"ived a catholi education, but even before I went to school I had a knowledge of right and wrong because I remember that when my father took us to visit the construction site of our future house, while we wereliving in the city of Annecy when I was between 2 and 5, my sister Elisabeth fell into a ditch that was filled with water and I remember thinking "serves her right" because she was a pest with me all the time (schadenfreude), and immediately afterwards thinking that it was wrong to rejoice at someone's misfortune even thou nobody had ever told me so. I also knew at that same age that I owned something that was exclusively mine and that nobody could take away from me, and it was my ability to make a choice as a human being, my freedom of choice. And in the ensuing years I experienced many times that my parents tried to corner me into a situation where the only escape was through a wrongful act, as for instance they did not provide the school supplies I needed so I had to steal them but I knew it was wrong and I did it with a heavy heart, and many, many other situations where I had to make a tough moral choice between keeping my hands clean and being deprived of something essential or very important, or acting against my moral integrity to satisfy a need, and I always chose to remain unsatisfied but with my conscience clear, except when I was around 17 I followed the example of a schoolfellow who let me play the piano at her house and encouraged me to shoplift, and I shoplifted for a year or so everything an adolescent girl wnts: make up, clothes, underwear, swimsuit, even tampax, because I didn't get my needs satisfied by my parents, and even though my mother knew she hadn't given me any money with which to buy these items, she NEVER asked me with what money I had obtained them. Until I got caught in an incident that looked like a mother-concocted set-up. But anyway, I was saying that I KNEW at a very young age that one has a choice between doing right and doing wrong and I didn't believe my parent's claim that we were all criminals and there was nothing to do about it. I KNEW that my very essence as a human being lay in my ability to chose and that if I surrendered it I opened the door to the worst evils. So I disproved my parent's theory of "not guilty by reason of congenital criminality" and I'm sure they have spend a lot of energy trying to force me into the wrong path in an attempt to relieve themselves of their feeling of guilt.

So, yes, I did prostitute myself sometimes, but only so I wouldn't starve, and I remained an illegal alien, which is illegal of course, but only an administrative violation, not a crime.

Today I was able to sweep the bedroom floor and wash it, and yesterday, for the first time since my injury, I cooked myself a healthy meal of fresh string beans and new potatoes, and as a result I have a feeling of progress.

DROP ME A BYTE

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