Page Two
wednesday 28 may 2008 greenfield
In 2007, I enrolled with the Department of Mental Health (a state-wide walrus in Massachusetts) looking for very specific kinds of assistance. Some I got, some I didn’t, and ended up getting from them the very thing I was trying to avoid: the destruction of my family (which were fourteen animals), and the destruction of my life. Not much time today.
Did I enroll with the DMH because I was schizophrenic, delusional, or having hallucinations? No. I enrolled on the basis of severe depression and severe PTSD.
Tuesday 20 January 2009, Northampton – all this time later, so many months after I wrote those words, and into another year. Here I am crying on the sidewalks and in the restaurants and shops. Here I am still not human, still the property of Matthew and his gang, it would seem (he has never denied such). still suffering more than I can adequately describe. I don’t know how to describe to anyone how much psychological agony the last 10 months and 9 days have been. I don’t know how to tell it. You need to try to put yourself in my place, to empathize. Maybe then you could feel for a few moments what I have felt every single day of all these months. 
Update 11 July 2009: this kind of protection that I was/am in, which Matthew informed me about a year ago, isn’t like witness protection, where you get located somewhere and agents show you ID’s. Although I, silly beast that I am, thought it would be like that: that soon, soon I would be shown some ID’s and told some truth and told in what town and on what street and in which building I was supposed to go and live. Matthew never told me any differently. He never told me that wouldn’t happen for me. This kind of “protection” is abusive and ugly, and, I’ve been told more than once by people other than Matthew, illegal. It’s a brand of federal chicanery I never knew existed until it happened to me.
Yes, I believe at least three things that Matthew told me last year. Three important, ugly things. I believe them because I was in the room with him when he said them. I believe him because of many additional things I later saw him and others do, and words they said. I believe him because of the seventeen months I had gone through with the mafia-chick. And I believe him because he had information about my grandfather that no prep-school brat from Deerfield has any way of knowing. My own family only found it out in Greece in 2006, but never breathed a word to me until I started asking questions earlier this year. This information is not to be found on the internet. At least, not the internet that non-federal, non-spooks have access to.
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read… Mental hell… Poison and snowflake trees…
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.
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