Coloring with the Catholics: My Story of Criminal Mental Health Care and Higher Ed Gaslighting in Larry Nassar’s Michigan (New Part Ten): Ripe for Retaliation: Poverty’s Flush

by Gina Fournier

UNDER CONSTRUCTION. THANK YOU!  

I’m still editing after initial construction in spring 2019. In order to polish a piece, I need to edit a lot and still need an outside editor. I publish while still under construction because I need accumulating actual mental torture to stop.

This defense attempts to correct the record. It requires an elaborate time structure (which requires an extra amount of very painful editing). And documentation when one is falsely accused of delusion, hallucination and psychosis. This is not a memoir. This is me still trying to save my life from retaliatory criminal (not forensic) psychiatry.

Since the spring and summer of 2019, when I first drafted this website, I’ve been filing rounds of Michigan Civil Rights complaints in response to current retaliation and harassment from my many attackers (school, police, Catholics, state of Michigan), as well as surviving. My complaints have been accepted and are still under investigation, delayed due to COVID. They are means toward possible legal redress, as I understand it.

New Part Ten Chapter Titles:

• Being Poor is Like Swimming in a Flushing Toilet
• Jesus Raped Me Reborn as Act Peace, V2.
• District #10 Health Department, Urine And Feces: Police Patrol Target My Bum
• State Tax Man is Employed by Bill Schuette, Too
• Department of Health and Human Services Dog Me, DHHS Marty Froman and Kristi Barron Harass
• Authorities Circled Me

Chapter: Being Poor is Like Swimming in a Flushing Toilet

Have you ever run completely out of money in your adult life?

~ * ~

Overtime, while living my Jeremiah Johnson/ Little House on the Prairie existence up north, I was stripped of my main lifeblood possessions: civil rights, phone, car, freedom of movement, liberty, dignity, home.

I don’t think this stripping happened all by accident.

I heard a phrase on the radio: “orchestrated traffic stop.”

I’ve wondered.

~ * ~

I consciously entered the lower class, knowing the time, date and what was really happening, not one bit delusional.

~ * ~

My life has been like a slow drip down the drain since the arrival of my nemesis, on paper, April 13, 2012.

~ * ~

In order to buy food and gas, I sold used furniture from the lakehouse back to the used furniture dealer in town, from whom Chris and I bought the used furniture in the first place.

Grizz kept me going for a while. Eternal thanks. Thank you.

Full disclosure.

As I left town, after the sale of the lakehouse, he sold me a great used washer and dryer, for 400 bucks.

Great deal, I thought.

Still do.

My clothes are tattered, stained, little left to my name but worn cotton still fits, but it’s clean.

~ * ~

I didn’t worry too much about driving without insurance the last of our four pre-attack vehicles.

Except for Bill Schuette’s welcome up north visit, which I figured meant I was marked.

Marked by the state attorney general?

How in the hell could this story still be growing?

I didn’t forget, but I tried not to think about it.

It still didn’t seem real.

It was real.

~ * ~

My dead husband who died in the first year of the Land of Motown Community College attack, died the day after Christmas, left this earth without his three cars, all old beaters of a sort, though beloved:

1. A Lincoln Continental, which I gave to my deadbeat dad when I figured I could afford it, even paid to ship the thing to Florida. My dad did not want to bother and come up to visit and drive the thing back down.
2. A Mercedes 450 sl convertible, mellow yellow, which was fun to drive, but a money pit. A client of my newly dead husband had it towed from his house, where it wintered, while I was locked up illegally in Catholic Siberia, due to suicide swatting, February 22-28, 2013. Cost me a grand to get it out when I figured out what happened, no mercy extended from anyone involved.
3. An every day Ford Explorer, which is the vehicle I kept for myself, and the one that broke down in the driveway downstate in Garden City for a chunk of time, but was resurrected by kindly strangers to help me escape/get out of town. Again, eternal thanks.

~ * ~

My 2003 Honda CRV was the youngest pre-attack vehicle and held its value the best. I super cleaned it for sale, even scrubbed the carpeting clean, but for some strange reason I could not find a decent buyer, even through a dealer, even though the thing was a brown beauty. Eventually, it sold but for much less than it should have brought in to the kitty.

Running out of cash doesn’t just happen suddenly.

~ * ~

Today is August 25, 2019, as I write, meaning my daily Facebook memories, where I store pictures, is showing me recent years, same date.

I had no idea this illiterate communication may have been authentic.

I walked home from the Garden city library to Deering Street and I found this note taped to my door downstate, August 25, 2015, four years ago today.

My head is spinning.

Whipped around by the ravages of time.

Time looping through my life.

August 25, 2015 is the date on the letter I wrote and mailed to Bill Schuette, which resulted in the October 7, 2015 denial of civil rights protections in writing from the start of Michigan Attornet General’s office, and the November 19, 2015 Michigan State police harassment.

Two years later, in 2017, I was double duty harassed, morning and night.

That morning, August 25, 2017, two years ago today, I was harassed by DHHS Kristi Barron and Theresa Ruiz, my assigned case worker, plus two Mecosta County cops.

Four people surrounded me.

I think, I think maybe they were thinking they might haul me off to the looney bin, again!!!

Two years later, in 2017, arrested on August 25, by Michigan State Police in the summer evening, for supposedly stalking Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2.

~ * ~

It took me two years to process the collusion of bodies and entities.

Until this week, with the help of social media libraries, libraries of me.

~ * ~

On August 25, 2017, the message delivered by DHHS could have been and should have been sent through the mail!

Watch the video. Which is the only proof!

Message: My welfare, which was not expiring, was to be extended.

They could have delivered the message through the postal service, but did not.

They sent a small swat team, in person: why?

To silence me. They, the big universal They, They picked me up later in a Michigan State cop car instead.

Same date.

~ * ~

Today is Sunday, August 25, 2019, as I write in Bay City, still fighting to save my life.

~ * ~

All holdings at the time of the Land of the Motown Community College attack, except the lakehouse, were taken, lost, given away, cost money to haul away, or lost money, it seemed.

Just as Chris feared and predicted, before he freaked out, kicked me out and quickly died down the street at Garden City hospital, in 2012, of the mysterious un-diagnosed illness circulating in his blood stream,.

For example:

writing tip: always provide detailed examples to support point

It cost more to haul out the used, full-sized sun tanning bed reclining in the basement in Garden City, than it did to buy the cancer-causing thing. I had it hauled out when I was cleaning out the place, before I realized the house would be lost in foreclosure and needn’t bother. Chris used the tanning bed to tan before he took trips south during winter, long ago and far away. Otherwise, he worked very physically hard, running his own one-man cleaning business.

Dr. Julie told me, soberly, supportive-ly, that no doubt we all will die and lose everything.

She was supporting the grace within me, with talk and acupuncture therapy I wish I could afford right now.

~ * ~

In the ten years I’d been coming up north, I had never seen cops, period.

On the lives of my animals, in ten years of driving up north from downstate, metro Detroit, I swear I had never even seen cops.

And, coincidentally, while Chris was alive, we had never seen the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops kitty-corner across the street, either.

We saw the house, of course, but no people.

~ * ~

Way back, when we used to drive up north every other weekend during the season, during warm months, Chris had a habit of popping open a beer once we hit Remus, twenty miles out of Mount Pleasant.

Yes, it’s illegal to drink and drive.

~ * ~

While Chris was alive, beer was enjoyed during the last twenty miles ride, through Barryton, while snaking north to Lake Miramichi, eight miles west of Evart.

Beer drinking but no pot smoking. Chris never condoned pot smoking while driving.

~ * ~

To be clear and honest, I haven’t driven illegally in years.

For real.

~ * ~

Though it was illegal , when Chris was alive, we drank beer as we drove the last twenty miles of country roads to the lakehouse because we never saw cops up north past Mount Pleasant, not on the public roads, and not around the lake on Modoc Trail and Lake Miramichi Drive.

~ * ~

Wow. A long time ago. The good days.

No cops!

~ * ~

After escaping up north, I could not pay to keep the Ford Explorer legal or barely buy gas because I had no income and no bank account.

The Livonia Catholics, at Catholic Parishes Federal Credit Union, next door to St. Mary Merciless Catholic Siberia human trafficking mental ward, had closed my credit union bank account downstate.

The Catholics closed the credit union account I had held since second grade as a student at St. Michael’s grade school, in Livonia.

Lose your bank account by order of your bank, the same Catholics that locked you up illegally in an almost secretive looney bin, almost hidden in the depths of the Felician Nun campus? The state attorney general takes a public stand against you?

Running out of money is soon to happen.

~ * ~

Because of bogus mental health care and the rest, I had run out of money, run out of money, run out of money.

Has that ever happened to you in your adult life?

~ * ~

I lost my car, the tan Ford Explorer, physically lost the thing, never to be seen again.

I was never even mailed something from the county or contacted by a tow yard about the thing.

It simply vanished.

~ * ~

And then I had no car, not even a broken down car, for three years, until July 2019, which is a long time. Three years.

Coincidentally, I’m driving a Ford Explorer again, after the sale of the lakehouse, an even older Ford Explorer, built a few months before 9/11.

Eddie Bauer edition.

~ * ~ 

A car is a person’s main possession.  If you run out of shelter, you can live in your car, if you have a car.

~ * ~

My first summer up north, the first of three, in 2016, just after the Fourth of July, on July 5, 2016, I was pulled over for driving with a loud muffler.

In the Ford Explorer left to me by Chris.

I was pulled over by Osceola County police.

It seems like the first time I saw police while driving up north, after ten years of driving up north, I was pulled over, when I did not possess the proper paperwork, meaning I was not insured.

My loud muffler was enough reason to pull me over, apparently.

It was a Tuesday.

I was coming back from the Sears, Michigan food pantry, with food, which was only open on Tuesdays. Again. Thanks eternally for the food, which kept me going.

I had been posting online on Facebook about going to the food pantry and not having auto insurance, and having a loud muffler, so it is possible that the traffic stop was “orchestrated.”

My car was towed, I guess.

Instead of arresting me, the Osceola cops made leave my car, and food, and walk, with a good five miles ahead of me.

I was left to walk home country miles and abandon my food pantry food.  

~ * ~

Driving like a poor person without paperwork earned me the first of two misdemeanors directly caused entirely due to the Land of Motown Community College’s attack, and cost a lot.

Not having a car meant I could not work period.

And not being able to work without an income is of course a big problem.

~ * ~

I applied for work at Foster’s Grocery Store in Evart, multiple times, four times, every time a sign was posted Help Wanted between November 2015 and July 2016.

I got no response.

No one wants to hire someone with either: a) my story and work record, or b) someone my age with no story and work record c) someone without a phone.

~ * ~

Before it occurred to me with my master’s degree, college teaching career and publishing credit to apply for work at the factory in Evart, I lost my car.

~ * ~

I don’t think I could work in factory, not with my story and my age.

I am not saying I was too good for it, but I was too old, too educated, too broken, too aged, too angry, too depressed to start working in a factory, the de-classroomed English teacher after 50.

I would rather be dead, which is my right to feel. Which is not the same as being suicidal.

I would have gone mad or gone criminal if former teacher peers Suzanne Labadie and Eric Abbey pushed into factory work.

I don’t think I could have handled the physical demands.

~ * ~

The idea, in my imagination, of living An Officer and A Gentleman plot backwards, no Richard Gere, me a beat up crone Debra Winger, terrified me.

~ * ~

How do people watch movies from the 1980s now?

~ * ~

All along, throughout this ordeal, I both knew things could get very bad for some one, me (who else?), who had been falsely accused of being suddenly crazy dangerous, possible school shooter material and all around crushed, and simultaneously, I have been in disbelief turned around, blind sided, struck hard by all the many blows that have come my way, blow, after, blow.

Knowing and stunned.

I’ve felt like I’m some sort of cartoon character getting slapped around in fast motion without relief, for over seven years and counting.

~ * ~

No money, no phone, no car to drive to a job or library, anywhere, eight, eighteen or twenty five miles away, in Evart, Reed City or Big Rapids.

Yet, I needed money obviously, for food and electricity, to survive.

~ * ~

And I needed money to do what I could to defend myself against the Land of Motown Community College attack.

I was the only one I knew who agreed with me, and still am, as far as I know, but there was no way I could simply forget about it.

Not on any front.

~ * ~

It was so strange.

No one local, no Lake Miramichi home owners, not even my long term next door neighbors on either side, north and south on Lake Miramichi Drive, asked questions about my signs or story, though I did talk to people.

My long term neighbors were male-led households, summer people only.

Jim and Stanley ruled their nests, over their more quiet and absent wives.

Jim and Stanley did not ask, certainly their wives did not ask, but Jim and Stanley were nice, until Jim sold his house and Stanley grew sick of me, too, my husband and Jim gone, though Stanley never called the cops about my in-home cursing and crying. Thank you.

It’s been very difficult knowing tax payers, other citizens, have contributed to my downfall, through state of Michigan and federal government action, or inaction, thinking of the EEOC, which could have put a stop to all of this before I was locked up in Catholic Siberia.

~ * ~

I needed to continue, not stop, defending myself, as Bill Schuette and Michigan State cops suggested in so many indirect words.

I was forced to continue redressing the government, continue protesting against my trampled and eroded civil rights.

Alone with dog and bird.

~ * ~

~ * ~

It wasn’t my idea, but I was forced to fight against the retaliation that was actively occurring instead of equal protection, which to me meant mailing at the post office, and e-mailing, to politicians, government agencies, my attackers.

Fighting to save my life meant using the internet for research and for social media posting, at a public library.

~ * ~

Libraries have given me shelter and libraries allowed have police to track my whereabouts.

Since the onset of my nemesis at Land of Motown Community College, on April 13, 2012, calling me suddenly crazy dangerous without meeting me, without basis, during the long stretches of time without internet at home, I have gone to libraries.

Libraries in Garden City and Livonia, downstate, and up north at Lake Miramichi in Evart, Reed City and Big Rapids, even here in Bay City, at the start, but mostly in Evart, Michigan.

Getting to the library.

In Garden City (by foot).

In Evart, Reed City or Big Rapids (ride needed).

In Bay City for a time (in the old beater I bought with proceeds from the sale of the lakehouse).

Getting online to post on Facebook has carried me forward through the ravages of time and made me a huge target for trolls.

The bigger the city (Big Rapids is home to Ferris State University), the faster the internet, but the further away the library.

~ * ~

Advocacy, release, quest, treat, retreat, frustration, salvation, empty salvation, desperation, lifeline, goal, danger, all mixed together.

Has posting on Facebook at public libraries helped?

~ * ~

Facebook suicide swatted me.

Facebook gives me an outlet.

Facebook for better and for worse?

Is the jury still out?

~ * ~

Over time, though I used the Evart library most often, I branched out to the libraries in Reed City and Big Rapids, too, on occasion, when I wanted I use faster internet connection for loading Youtube videos of my latest bitch slapping by local authorities.

Which library I went to depended on my ride.

The Reed City library is housed in a nondescript building and sits a couple doors down from the Reed City Motel, which has lost some of its glamour over the decades.

If you needed a location to encourage depression and desperation, the Reed City Motel would be it.

I have my own pictures somewhere.

S-C-A-R-Y!!!

At one point, near the end of my stay in the area, my area ‘hosts’ suggested I stay somewhere, anywhere, like here, on my way out of town, to vacate the lakehouse property after it was sold, which I only did after dragging my heels deeply.

The Reed City library is fine, nothing special, with internet speeds in between slower speeds in Evart and the fastest connection times in Big Rapids.

Reed City Library’s main drawback, for me, is being housed in the same town in which I was jailed.

~ * ~

After I lost my car, I used the MOTA bus system, or bummed a ride from Someone.

The Mecosta Osceola Transit Authority cost five bucks a ride each way, runs on scheduled appointments and caters mostly to special needs adults who work and spend the day at a facility in Paris, Michigan.

MOTA by rides took hours and needed to be arranged in advance to coordinate with established early morning and late afternoon trips.

If I wanted to go anywhere, I had to schedule a pick up early in the morning and stay all day.

~ * ~

Completely out of cash, I benefited from the kindness of strangers.

A woman named as if from a modern fairy tale caught word of my story through my advocacy methods and sent me money between November 2015 and some point in 2016, records plus memory indicate.

I should have added up how much.

She sent me maybe a a hundred and fifty bucks total, in chunks of twenties and fives.

Don’t trust my math.

She sent me Christmas presents at the end of 2015.

We e-mailed back and forth more than I recalled.

She didn’t say too much about herself, but one email said she lost her job and was sent packing, meaning the “money tree” she joked about was drying up.

I thanked her effusively, and still do.

~ * ~

It is very strange to be very obvious to strangers, kind strangers, and trolls, devastating evil-hearted trolls, to be caught in the middle, but ignored by most people and most categories of possible helpers, press, government, celebrity endorsement.

It is very odd to be the recipient of charity after earning upwards of a 100 grand a year as college teacher, a supposedly union-protected tenured college teacher.

It is very uncomfortable to not know and not meet, not verify, not vet, not connect names and faces with actual bodies.

But thank you.

It is very trying to be surrounded by these mysteries on top of a lack of official acknowledgement of my claims.

~ * ~

If I were pranking me with money and wanted to remain anonymous, I’d maybe call myself Cinderella Millioniare, Cindy Milz.

What a coincidence.

~ * ~

I was not generous enough when I made a healthy income, 50, 60, 70, 80 grand and counting, rising, annually, due to faculty contract design and my workload.

Honestly, teaching more than five classes of community college courses per semester is pure teacher greed, which I did my last semester, in the fall 2012, following suit with department practice.

~ * ~

I told myself I was getting out of twenty years of debt, which was true, but still.

I was greedy.

Very unlike kind stranger, Cinderella Millionaire.

Thank you again, eternally.

~ * ~

Safelink free Obama phone ordeal.

Or Nothing is Free.

Don’t get me wrong.

I am beholden. Theoretically, I am very grateful.

It would be much better if the United States were less sexist, if none of this had ever happened, if women were directly protected as a sex and gender in the U.S. Constitution, if the Equal Employment Opportunity commission claim I filed had been responded to positively, helpfully, way back in 2012!

Still, I am grateful for a free phone, even though it does cost a lot of time and some money, for communicating, mailing paperwork, buying in between phone cards and replacement phones.

But a free phone helps.

(NOTE: Avoid working with company at all costs! You would rather die, trust me.)

Thank you.

~ * ~

I hope to support myself fully once again one day.

~ * ~

For a considerable chunk of time, dates blurred among so many pivotal dates, I had no phone service.

Eventually, to replace the phone given to me downstate in Garden City by kind strangers, after much effort, contacting phone operators in India without a phone and with spotty area connection, I did get a free Obama phone with service, which was frustratingly untrustworthy at the lakehouse.

~ * ~

Even when I had phone service, I often had broken service with static and drops.

I could not use the phone inside the lakehouse, not without taking a risk.

I had to stand on the public road to use my phone.

I had to walk around the lake on Lake Miramichi Drive or walk down to the lakeshore in order to find a signal or send a post to Twitter or Facebook.

~ * ~

I talk loudly by nature and nurture.

~ * ~

But I didn’t get an Obama phone until I got welfare, and I didn’t get welfare, food stamps, up north, until after the 2016 presidential election.

~ * ~

2016 Presidential Election While Living in Trump “Lock her up!” Land

Election Day.

November 2016.

Someone drove me to apply to welfare, when they said they were taking me to vote.

I said, We’re going the wrong way.

The person said, We are going to Big Rapids, so you can apply for welfare.

I said, I already applied downstate and was turned down! Plus, it’s election day! The offices probably aren’t even open!

The welfare offices in Big Rapid were not open.

Because it was election day.

On election day, November 6, 2016, I was driven to vote, the long way, first going twenty five miles the wrong way, to Big Rapids, to the closed DHHS offices, then twenty five miles back, through the Chippewa Lake region, plus eight miles in the right direction, to Evart, to vote, so I could vote for Hillary Clinton, then eight miles back home to Lake Miramichi.

Election day 2016, I knew Hillary Clinton was going to lose early in the afternoon, when I sat in Someone’s vehicle, in the passenger seat, unable to drive myself directly and efficiently to the polls.

Going the wrong way.

A metaphor.

Not a coincidence, my intuitive mind wants to say.

~ * ~

I was seething, pretty much silently.

I was driven by my Donald Trump voting driver, Someone.

~ * ~

Someone who does not wish to be a part of this narrative.

~ * ~

After this interlude, after Trump won, I was taken again by this driver, by Someone, to Big Rapids, and I applied again for welfare, without the help of either DHHS’s Marty Froman or Kristi Barron.

Someone insisted.

Someone said Someone had connections in DHHS, so made me apply again, because Someone was spending Someone’s money on me, for needed supplies, and therefore Someone had unstated but still reasonable demands.

(insert images again welfare denial from downstate? and approval up state)

~ * ~

Time is so strange.

(add green clock picture)

For example, I hear the rock super group, made up Bob Dillon, George Harrison, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty, the Traveling Wilbury’s, and I lose track of time.

Although I can figure out time pretty easily due to the ravage of time.

When did George Harrison die?

2001.

Not math, but by touch, tactical memory, things I’ve owned, I calculate time: I bought Travelling Wilbury’s on cassette, after records, before cds, ipods, streaming, in the late 1980s.

The late 1980s?

Bridging a millennial marker makes the number seem more weighty.

~ * ~

How the hell old am I?

I can figure out how old I am pretty easily, I was born in 1963, but I hardly want to know the answer.

I turn 56 this month.

I have been fighting this fight since my late 40s.

I have been fighting gaslighting and criminal mental abuse by Land of Motown Community College for seven years, the same number of years that I taught at the school. Crazy.

I am very tired and haggard.

~ * ~

Mostly, I was alone among humans.

But Someone became my patron and my friend.

Someone became my friend with strings, which compromise friendship.

So does suicide gaslighting unacknowledged. Like friendship with strings, suicide gaslighting compromises friendship.

Though Someone’s wishes will be honored, Someone still needs to be thanked and Someone is still a part of my story.

My story doesn’t work without Someone, who carried me, with rides, and cash, and friendship and refuge, with patronage and friendship, though compromised, when no one else did.

Thanks eternally.

~ * ~

The Chicago Cubs won the World Series earlier rather than later in my Jeremiah Johnson/ Little House on the Prairie years?

Wow.

Time blows my mind sometimes!

I watched the last game of the world series in 2016 when the Chicago Cubs won with Someone.

I remember walking home from Someone’s house.

How brave I was, one year living in the country.

Walking home in the complete dark near midnight no street lights with the most magnificent view of the stars in the heavens above, not one bit afraid of the dark.

~ * ~

The real scary creatures are humans who lurk in broad daylight.

~ * ~

Up north, I was granted welfare in late 2016 or early 2017, which allowed me to line up for a free Obama phone.

Getting the free Obama phone was not a small feat, in part because my dead husband had ingrained an old street address, from like the 1990s, into my head, for the lakehouse, a four digit number.

We did not receive mail up north and did not realize the address had changed to a five digit number.

Erroneously, I thought the four digit number was the new changed number, so I put all new accounts in that wrong number, until I realized and accepted the error.

Making even the smallest moves took forever and a Herculean effort.

Chris told me the address was a certain four digit number, so I believed him.

I believed others were wrong, even though they were alive and he was dead.

While he was alive, all bills came to him in Garden City.

Lack of houses, lack of year round residents and the county line complicated matters, but eventually I changed all addresses to the correct street address.

Everything took forever.

Being poor is a full time job.

~ * ~

I worked hard living up north, one way or another.

I kept busy.

~ * ~

I got a Safelink phone finally in 2017, by May 2017, when the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops struck with their bogus ppo.

I know because I used up my new phone minutes trying to get free legal help and information about how to manage the onset of Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2, in May 2017.

No one could help me in my area with the onset of series legal problems, it took a long time and much frustration to discover.

~ * ~

Attackers and bills piled up and balled me up like string.

~ * ~

I loved the cabin and the outdoors natural life, partially, substantially, living off the grid, up north, in the middle of the Mitten.

And simultaneously my worsening practical situation, reality, isolation, threatened to drive me mad.

~ * ~

A charitable organization called Mid Michigan Community Action helped a great deal, along with Someone.

Without the kindness and generosity of strangers, downstate and up north, I never would have made it.

Like the homes in which I hid and turned to cash, for which I owe Chris, Harry and Ethel gratitude, many people have given me helping hand, which blows my mind.

Thank you, eternally.

No one else understood my quest, but strangers understood the need for food and toilet paper.

I can’t thank enough or remember often enough how much thanks me and my entire alimentary canal owe to the nice people of Michigan who have reached out to me.

Thank you, eternally.

~ * ~

Many times (in seven years, lots of available moments), I have been bitchy, because I have not been understood intellectually, or emotionally, or psychologically.

Sometime for too long I have forgotten about my many supporters.

Thank you again, eternally.

~ * ~

It’s hard to remember all of this huge story at once!

~ * ~

People left goods at the mailbox, especially dog food for Hunter.

~ * ~

Hunter was set for food thanks to strangers who dropped off food at the mailbox.

Louie the cockatiel ate like a bird (he is a bird).

But I needed to become familiar with all food pantries in the area.

I stood in line with the poor people of Evart and gratefully accepted free produce and pop tarts.

(insert more pictures food pantries and food giveaways )

Humbling.

~ * ~

Good things I had a lot of socks, underwear and wash cloths, because cleaning my clothes was a huge challenge and major stressor.

People were reluctant to let me use their washer and dryer.

I had to beg people to use their laundry equipment.

There weren’t that many people around to beg.

~ * ~

Before I escaped up north, I knew I had a big problem.

Water.

Well-water up north at Lake Miramichi is superb, great tasting.

So great, the global Nestle company likes its rights to sell it all to you.

~ * ~

There was great water pressure in the shower at the lakehouse cabin, when accessed through a private well, when Chris was alive.

~ * ~

Chris did not close down the water well very well when he was dying in November 2012. I wasn’t with him. He had verbally abused me right out the door in October 2012, when I rented the place in lower Livonia on Cardwell. That fall, he had his grown up nephews swing by the lakehouse to help him, but I understand he got in a fight with everyone and sent them away.

When I arrived in fall 2015, to live at the lakehouse, the pipes below the house had blown holes in numerous places.

I found out much later, a seal on the toilet had cracked.

Some little thing went wrong with physical well outdoor pump, too.

~ * ~

At first, I carried water from Lake Miramichi, in buckets, up the hill, to the house, to flush the toilet, which worked well enough.

I called it the gravity flush.

~ * ~

That first year, I was concerned, not terrified, but afraid.

Winter was coming.

The big freeze.

Getting water from the lake would become much more challenging.

Even if the outdoor pump was working, it was not a winter-working well pump.

~*~

The year-round neighbor up the hill, toward the area hilltop, at Hilltop Farms, I called her Jeanette, let me use her year-round pump two of three winters I lived up north, 2015-2016, and 2017-2018.

I used her well for two years.

Thank you eternally.

~ * ~

I was very surprised to find through FOIA that her official first name differs and that Jeanette called the cops, the second call to the cops, Sept. 4, 2016, Labor Day Weekend, to complain I was threatening her, but said she did not want the cops to come out. She named the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops #2 and said I was harassing them too. How would she know? Hearsay.

I had not threatened her. She lived up the hill far enough away that I could not see her house from my house, because of the trees. She did not walk down to the edge of her property to spy on me and walk back back up again, not ever that I witnessed. she stayed on her balcony the many times we spoke as I filled water buckets.

I asked her relatives, who were camping on her lot, right across the street from the end of my driveway, up a short cliff, under some tress, on the northwest corner of her lot, if they called the police that Labor Day Weekend. They said no. I was swearing after the cops left, but I was talking to myself and on my property and did not even see Jeanette.

I even recall apologizing to her relatives for swearing. They waved and said no problem. They owned a little pony.

~ * ~

I must add this part, for Chris.

One of his favorite lines from Seinfeld was about having a little pony. On the show, a one time character boasted about her childhood pony Chris loved to repeat that line.

About having a little pony.

That Labor Day weekend Sunday, in 2016, I saw Jeanette’s family’s little pony tied to the tree.

Ask them.

Someone in Jeanette’s family of kids and grandkids has or had a little pony, or I should clarify a mini-horse, which I will call a little pony. They would occasionally bring it to Lake Miramichi and tie it under a tree, at the intersection of Modoc Trail and Miramichi Drive, right at the end of my driveway, which I thought was so strange.

It was strange to tie the little pony to a tree, at the extreme outer corner of Jeanette’s property, which was a double lot with plenty of space and trees, stretching up the hill to Navajo Trial.

Why bring the pony, but leave it practically standing in the road by itself and mostly ignore the thing?

Whatever dog of mine, Dalva or Hunter, was alive at the time would alert me that there was a little pony standing at the end of the driveway, up a short cliff, under a clump of birch trees, though one easy for a dog to bound.

Hunter or Dalva would alert me in dog talk: little pony!

~ * ~

My dogs never bothered the little pony.

And I did not threaten Jeannette (with what?) or harass the Lying Cops.

~ * ~

I did ask neighbors who called the cops.

I wanted and needed to explain that I was not suicidal!!!!

Please don’t call the cops!

The only thing they can do it kill you or lock you up.

~ * ~

Wood.

Winter.

Heat.

Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

After enlightenment, repeat.

Hippy Bill Easter, my friend, deceased, told me the Zen proverb, Before enlightenment, shop wood, carry water. Same thing after.

I post, therefore I am.

Gathering hauling sawing stacking wood.

Wood to burn in the Ben Franklin stove, for winter warmth.

~ * ~

To keep warm, in November, December, January, February, March, April, I used space heaters, radiator style space heaters, sparingly, under Louie the cockatiel, in the bedroom and bathroom.

I used space heaters sometime in bedroom always thinking about the electric bill I could not pay.

When Someone or Mid Michigan Community Action was paying the electric bill, I turned up the heat, to be honest.

But not the first winter.

I had to tell myself: there will not be additional winters. There can’t be! It’s too cold all the time for months! How could I possibly repeat?

I managed through three winters.

~ * ~

It gave my winter days purpose and kept me my blood warm to go outside every day and work my wood pile.

I spent many hours this way, for three winters.

I became a hand saw Amish style lumber Jill, out of necessity.

I can’t believe I lived off a wood stove, with some electric heater help, for three winters, in a summer cabin without insulation.

No wonder I was depressed, pissed off, trying to end my ordeal in my own way, best I could.

No one wonder my body fell apart when I moved to Bay City, and I no longer needed to work my body like a team of oxen.

I hate to say it but I think I need a hip replacement.

~ * ~ 

Chapter: Jesus Raped Me Reborn as Act Peace, V2

Meanwhile, my resurrected civil rights protest display was born at Lake Miramichi, perhaps on June 25, 2016 (first photos on my up north lap top) and grew rather massive, until I was carted off to jail on August 25, 2017.

~ * ~

While I was in jail, more signs were stolen.

Some neighbors made a pile of what was left.

~ * ~

I carted the signs away from the road where they were piled, and carried them down the lot, past the house, to the shed, the one I painted a delicious dark chocolate, with forest green trim.

Eventually, at the end of my stay, in my pie slice of paradise (the lake lot was pie shaped, wider at the road, coming to almost a point at the lake, lined with trees), I resurrected a mini version of my original larger decimated display up against the house.

I dragged the signs back out after a spell, when I needed to, after some blow, purely for me, for my well being.

~ * ~

At the end of my stay, I burnt the rest of the signs in homage, offering, remembrance, grief.

Dim hope.

I held my very last fire soberly, empty of as many stirring emotions as possible.

I guess that’s one thing controlling fire is good for: transmuting the ball of your difficult more painful tangled emotions.

~ * ~

It is very strange to return home from jail.

I’ve been abducted from borrowed homes twice since my nemesis, my Larry Nassar, William MacQueen dropped a bomb on my life.

[Note: I will name him throughout. Unsure at first. Still writing, editing, shaping.]

I have returned about from abduction, illegal and unnecessary, and retaliatory, twice, to the rented place in Livonia with rats and to the lakehouse.

And it is very unsettling.

~ * ~

First thing I noticed when I returned to the lakehouse after 35 days in the Osceola County jail, thanks to Land of Motown Community College Lying cop #2 and Judge Kimberly Booher, the prosecutor and the Michigan State Police, someone had tied my mailbox back in place with nautical rope and cinder blocks.

Apparently someone else, I presume, drove over my mailbox to express themselves in my absence.

I’m sure I have a picture somewhere.

I take a billion pictures.

~ * ~

Another house, same fight, new supply of wooden board on which to paint more signs as an outlet to my desperation. 

~ * ~

To control cabin fever and fight mental abuse with my own devised therapy, I painted and posted signs.

To redress the government and seek ideally positive media attention, I painted and posted even more signs, especially after each theft.

Positive media attention did did not happen.

Someone interview the Pioneer Press in Big Rapids.

One of the many newspapers in the state of Michigan to know and turn its head.

Don’t believe the media is primarily made up of liberal voices.

~ * ~

Who called the cops?

Labor Day Weekend 2016 (I should divulge it’s Labor Day Weekend 2019 as I write) I really thought it was important to find out who called the cops and talk to the people directly.

My actual next door neighbors on either side never called the cops.

I talked to them directly, they said they did not.

I have FOIA to cover all Lake Miramichi cop events at this point, and their names do not appear, which I greatly appreciate.

Instead, a mess was created under which I was suppose to be buried, dead, silenced somehow, which I could feel and hazily sense, and so I painted a herd of large colorful signs, which began modestly.

Establishing shot.

Main ideas.

Trying to Save my Life. Witchhunt. My name.

Jail my criminal attackers, William MacQueen and Terry McCauley who suicide swatted me on February 22, 2013 and June 9, 2014. Terry McCauley admitted under oath in an Oakland County court room that William MacQueen, my nemesis, my Larry Nassar, ordered the calls.

I’m looking for good publicity, if there is such a thing, for a woman raped by Jesus, metaphorically speaking, in Twitter metaphoric short speak.

“I was not seen by Dr. Andrew Muzychka 2.22.2013” is, to me, the most important sign I painted.

I was very upset when it was stolen.

I called the cops. I’ve got the cop’s business card, with date, somewhere. Cops did not seem to concerned.

No one ever asked me a thing about the meaning of “Jesus Raped Me,” though a few people said they liked my painting overall.

A few.

A small number of people.

“Jesus Raped Me.”

It was not my idea, but my problem to deal with, no matter how much people don’t want to hear about it.

I figure tax payers helped pay because the college, the cops and the hospital benefit from tax payer dollars and/or tax free status.

We’re all connected.

Like downstate in Garden City, organically it occurred to me to repaint “Jesus Raped Me” with “Act Peace.”

Act Peace washed away, something about the red cadmium based paint, perhaps, so I repainted.

I tended and changed the signs as needed.

Wind blows the signs down? I rebuilt.

My message had to stand, and so did the signs.

The whiteness in the background in some shots taken from the driveway and road is Lake Miramichi.

The lot had great depth of field, overlooking a cove attached to the larger lake, which meant the distant shoreline of trees was relatively closeby and the sun sat behind trees but reflected on the lake.

It was beautiful.

Thank you, eternally.

~ * ~

Up until my arrest, the display grew, with some of my best work debuting at the end of the show.

I added paint.

I re-purposed signs like HONK, when it clearly did not work.

I moved things around, like sentries guarding my castle.

Perhaps because of my resurrected civil rights protest, most neighbors were not interested in giving me a ride to town, most of the time.

~ * ~

I painted and painted until the locals decided if I would not stop painting, I would need to silenced, either with another trip to the looney bin or a stay in jail.

They knew I was poor, that no one stood by my side, that they could do what they wanted and get away with it and no one would protest.

Certainly not the local media, the Big Rapids Pioneer Press.

The Michigan State Police arrest report, as I recall, which was never scrutinized in court by a good lawyer, or any lawyer, which was never scrutinized in court at all, made no mention of my civil rights signs.

Which seems like a strange omission.

Me thinks they ignored my signs too much.

The proud crooked cops, far too many of them across the state, skipped many relevant facts, such as the fact that the Land of Motown Lying Cops followed my social media posts, likely with help, and not the other way around.

They read my online diary. I certainly never sent them a message. They were not added to my Christmas card list.

~ * ~

I was silenced.

I was set up.

~ * ~

When I was arrested August 25, 2017, I was in the midst of painting my culmination civil protest sign, combining the nastiness of Trump with the nastiness of the school’s attack on my life.

Something Wicked This Way Came, the Ray Bradbury science fiction novel, popped up in my fall 2012 online courses, amid some very strange and wicked activity, one and off line.

~ * ~

Underneath HELP! which simply does not work, sad but true, was originally “thank you!”

The woman who walked into the lakehouse on June 24, 2016, the next summer, in 2017, actually gave me a check for 4 grand, over Fourth of July weekend, which I was to told hold until blah, blah, blah.

She promised while drunk to buy my two scooters, my scooter with sidecar and the big boy no training wheels scooter Chris bought, proceeds with which I could fix my plumbing and avoid jail for plumbing offenses.

I knew the deal would not go through when she sobered up, but I painted a sign in her honor, temporarily, until I needed to repaint it.

This Thank you! turned to HELP! Catholic Attack, Don’t Call the Police! my heaviest sign by weight, first stood on the road, until when, jail?

Must check timeline.

Chapter: District #10 Health Department, Urine And Feces Police Patrol Target My Bum

Any poor people reading know this story, how bad luck blows lead to more bad luck blows.

I was human trafficked by the Catholics, who were let off the hook, and harassed because I complained. But it was more than just police harassed who harassed me up north, adding up to a full screen picture of discrimination and eventually terror.

By a consortium of county officials, called the District #10 Health Department, which included Mecosta county, where much of the lakehouse stood, but not Osceola County, where Land of Motown Lying Cop’s bogus claim was housed, I was severely hassled, hounded and threatened with jail time solely regarding the cabin’s plumbing. 

Until I finally managed to get the plumbing fully patched back together again, which took me until April 2018, by trading the scooters for used patchwork still sainted plumbing, I carried water buckets and used a neighbor’s winterized well.

~ * ~

Pouring industrialized buckets of water down the toilet activated the gravity flush, which did eventually weaken.

This toilet was replaced.

With a used model, but one that flushed normally. 

~ * ~

The local real estate agent, who did earn his percentage when the house was finally sold, had the septic tank emptied before DHHS sent someone. 

~ * ~

I scrapped together payments to Consumers Energy with help from Mid Michigan Community Action, a charity provider to operate the electricity to run the well and other things like fridge, stove, lights, room heaters, radio.

~ * ~ 

I warmed water on the stove to wash most of the three years, which is a shame because the water and water pressure at the lakehouse were superb.

~ * ~

Nestle and Osceola County have been fighting over water rights for years.

~ * ~

A representative from the District Health Department #10 (a title which sounds ominous) showed up the fourth anniversary of my illegal looney bin lock up, February 22, 2017, and left a note on my door. 

I don’t think the timing was accidental.

Records from the District Health Department #10 I just received though FOIA show the agency receiving complaints January 25, 2017. They did not need to wait until February 22, 2017 to post this note.

Randy Earnest Sanitarian left this note, just after Sherry Earnest tax collector did not make it easy for me to get an extension on my taxes.

Randy Earnest did not return for months, not until June, so I think his timing on February 22, 2017, the four year anniversary of my illegal and cruel looney bin lock up, was intended to inflict emotional damage, which is just so nasty.

The tax collector ultimately works for the Attorney General, it turns out.

Well, no surprise, the real estate agent on the board, Fuzzy, who had the septic tank emptied in the summer of 2016, worked me.

He later sold the house for asking price, which is another mystery frankly (how? why?), but he would not give me a clear answer about whether or not the board complained to the health department.

Just received through FOIA request.

A letter from the Lake Miramichi home owner’s association board of directors saying my septic system didn’t work, when they knew it had been emptied and never inspected anything, were never in or under the house.

I’m guessing this was sent by John Cataldo, a home owner, maybe on the board, the guy who worked the lake roads and a sexist aggressive white male who threatened me once. I forget exactly what he said from sitting inside his big rig.

There is one more letter of complaint about my plumbing, stamped received January 25, 2017, which I will post in the next section.

It was written by Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 who sent me to jail.

~ * ~

Four months later, in June, Randy Earnest, Sanitarian, District Health Department #10, returned with Mecosta County cops (add two to the list). 

The Lake Miramichi Home Owner’s Association had indeed contacted District #10 Health Department, apparently, but claimed they saw me emptying shit into the road.

They claimed I shit in the road, for real.

No board member ever checked my plumbing, or even spoke to me.

Other Lake Miramichi home owners owned plumbing companies.

No wanted to work with me or help me.

They wanted me gone.

When District Health department and the cops arrived at the end of June, in 2017, the cabin was condemned on the spot. 

This sign was taped on the door.

I removed the condemned sign immediately, after the inspector and cops left, though I still have it. 

~ * ~

Back in the summer of 2016, I did have trouble with the pipes under the house, not the septic tank.

Before my time as captain of the sinking ship, someone put a baby pool under the pipes, the toilet bathroom pipes, just in case.

Part of draining out the water each winter, too.

~ * ~

Three times, I think, during the three years, the first time in the summer of 2016, there was a clog in the pipes which caused shitty water to leak into the tub.

I worked very hard staying on top of things to avoid such a problem, but when it did happen, I dug holes and buried shit water, which never contained solids and was very much water.

I did not dump that water on the surface of the land.

~ * ~

It was unlawful for me to live in the cabin under the penalty of arrest, but I continued to do so.

~ * ~

A hearing was held on August 11, 2017, a big fake to-do.

My septic tank was working.

I had water.

But they had a law that said they could jail me for living on a condemned property, so my property was condemned and so was I for living there.

~ * ~

People have commented, my court appointed lawyer, jail birds, how hard District #10 hit me, harder than most.

There is a lot of poverty in the area, a lot of ram shackle living.

~ * ~

A court reported type, a woman, I have her name somewhere, transcribed the District #10 Health Department hearing, held in the Mecosta County courthouse.

Transcripts exist.

I was largely outnumbered, railroaded, manhandled with fake decorum and the signs of due process, without honesty and fairness.

The pictures and documentation I brought to show that I met the minimum standards were ignored.

~ * ~

I received the ruling against me from the District #10 Health Department by mail, while incarcerated in the Osceola County jail.

Someone collected and brought me my mail. Eternal thanks.

~ * ~

The District #10 Heath Department ruling against me meant, if I got out on bond, which I eventually did do after 35 days, Mecosta County could immediately arrest me for living at the lakehouse.

I heard plenty of stories of back to back arrest by the other jail birds, so I was a terrified, nervous wreck, trying to keep it together, in jail!

~ * ~

I needed to try and fix the plumbing, which I had been trying to do for a long time, while I was in jail.

Which is of course impossible.

~ * ~

I got of jail on September 28, 2017, I think it was, and lived at the lakehouse risking a return to jail for my plumbing until I relatively soon got a plumber to fix the well (ridiculously easy fix, thank you eternally).

And my plumber, St. Tim, who I got through connections, took my trade offer and rigged me up some used full plumbing, water heater, toilet, shower, sinks, the whole works.

I traded the two scooters, mine and my dead husbands, for used plumbing.

~ * ~

Chris and I fell in love, then love let wither, for the usual sorry reasons.

We were a very good match for a time.

The year of the witchhunt, 2012, began with talk of a proper wedding.

However, especially after the onset of witchhunt, it was clear I was too colorful, and his body was too sick.

~ & ~

My first up north mural, painted on the inside doors of the shed, is admittedly childish and hokey.

I’m a goof and a sap by nature, and, big reveal, I never went to art school.

Wish I had.

~ * ~

Indoor plumbing!

Finally!

After two winters without.

Just in time for a third winter.

And just in time for showing the house, which was officially put up for sale the next especially late and short spring, preceding my last summer at the lakehouse.

~ * ~

After the plumbing was fixed, I could save myself the trip up the hill to Jeannette’s well.

Which was good, because she sold the house and moved while I was in jail.

Quickly, a buyer showed up after months and months of no bites.

~ * ~

But I still had tax man problems, no money, no income.

~ * ~

Chapter: State Tax Man is Employed by Bill Schuette, Too

By county officials, I was pressed for back taxes, in and out of court, in ways not reserved for others who also owed back taxes. 

I won’t go into details. 

I will go into some details, to be clear and ideally convincing.

Of course I’ve got documentation.

~ * ~ 

The health department official who slapped the condemned sign on my door and the tax collector, who worked with the state attorney general’s office, shared the same last name.

Earnest.

Neither lived up to their last name.

I saw Sherry Earnest in court, twice, two years in a row, when I asked for extensions on back taxes owed.

The first year, she did not give me an extension over the phone
but apparently did so for every other person in the county on the list.

The list I saw was long, and the courtroom was empty.

Swear to dog.

Getting to the courthouse was a big ordeal for me, too, which she may have known.

Back taxes were paid in full with the sale of the lakehouse in the summer of 2018.

My guess is Randy and Sherry are siblings but they could be cousins or married or their last names just a coincidence, but probably not.

~ * ~

In 2018, year two fighting for mercy in tax court, always in February, the democratic appointee who granted an extension the first year was called away, and a new white male Republican judge took his place.

The Republican judge listened to me and listened to the lawyer representing the state from Bill Schuette’s office, a young guy I saw two years in a row.

I have his name, the one wearing a bow tie, and a very annoying facial expression which reminded me of the actor Christian Slater.

The Republican judge said no way, no mercy, pay the taxes or lose the house.

~ * ~

The real estate guy had an unpleasant term: “drop dead date.”

~ * ~ 

Everything had become a fight, and the fight widened over time, a the knot of my life tied me up tighter.

~ * ~

FOIA results I could manage to make stopped naming suicide swatters. 

I suspect for good reasons back channel collusion was encouraged, for reasons that can be understood: Get rid of the loud crazy broad. 

~ * ~

Except, guess what?

A miracle occurred.

~ * ~

No, I did not shut up.

~ * ~

A Good Samaritan business local stepped forward, paid the taxes owed on just about the last day, which meant I got stay at the lakehouse for a little while longer, sell the house and make a profit.

Because of this one person who does business in Evart, Michigan.

Who was probably connected to people who also harmed me, but life is complicated.

The person made a modest profit in interest, but mostly did a good deed for the sake of doing a good deed.

To help me.

And to run me out of town with some cash.

Thank you, eternally.

~ * ~   

Chapter: Department of Health and Human Services Dog Me, DHHS Marty Froman and Kristi Barron Harass

Welfare denied my claims downstate.

Even though my paperwork was filed and refiled by a social worker in the Garden City city complex holding the library and food pantry.

~ * ~

I was grateful for help from services in Garden City, but I was also aware I had been denied equal protection and beaten into poverty.

~ * ~

Up north, I did apply again, as Someone insisted.

I was granted food stamps and health care.

I was grateful for food and health care, but I was also aware I had been denied equal protection, beaten, held down in poverty.

~ * ~

Separately, beginning in April 2016, local county social workers from the state department of health and human services Big Rapids office hassled me with surprise home visits. 

They would not tell me who sent them.

They still won’t.

~ * ~

Their department is called Adult Protective Services, but Marty Froman and Kristi Barron out of the Big Rapids office did not want to protect me at all.

What I told them over and over outright is that my main need was justice for the crimes committed February 22, 2013, and acknowledgement and justice for my illegal looney bin lock up.

I was ignored to my face.

Over and over and over.

~ * ~

They wanted to contain me and hold me down in poverty.

They wanted to silence me.

They wanted to silence my claims of being human trafficked for a week at St. Mary Merciless.

~ * ~

The welfare office and forms asked, Are you a victim of human trafficking? Tell us!

I told Marty Froman (unwanted home visits), Theresa Ruiz (assigned case worker), and Kristi Barron (unwanted home and jail visits), but they all ignored me.

I told them repeatedly, and they ignored my claims repeatedly.

~ * ~

I wanted to put off reading through these numerous e-mails.

Sure, they help to prove my point that I told DHHS very clearly, very often what my main problem was and what I needed them to do: acknowledgment for illegal looney bin lock up.

I’m working against the clock of my life here.

As I write, today is September 10, 2019.

~ * ~

Despite my anxious wallet, here I am, adding the DHHS e-mails.

Trying to save to life.

~ * ~

I forgot that DHHS paid a very large electric bill, almost $600 bucks worth.

This e-mail chain with Marty Froman reminded me.

Thank you.

However, I’d rather have gone without electricity and instead been acknowledged for my claims against my former employer, Livonia Police and St.Mary Merciless human trafficking criminal Catholic looney bin.

Make no mistake: Doing what I asked, what I think they were required to do, by law, ethics or implication, would have been much, much, much better.

Note: the state’s septic guy did not empty the tank.

That father and son team (one wore a t-shirt with an original Harvey R. Ball smiley face) got there too late, after the real estate guy’s people already did the stinky job.

Marty Froman’s response is kind in tone, but I must object strongly.

He was kind, but not helpful.

Not like I needed.

Marty Froman suicide gaslit me in this e-mail. Maybe not on purpose, but in effect.

DHHS asked on the application for welfare benefits if a person has been human trafficked.

The DHHS office in Big Rapids has signs posted asking the same question.

I had been human trafficked.

I told them repeatedly.

~ * ~

When I read Marty Froman suggest I seek help at a church, as in a Christian Church, the only kind in the area, after he walked past my signs “Jesus rapes me” and “tortured by God and state of Michigan,” I was furious.

~ * ~

Maybe Claudean with the friendship ring (another infuriating stupidity, but nice) called DHHS.

~ * ~

But the suicide swatting and suicide gaslighting Marty Froman admits to doing in this letter made me wish violent Jesus retaliatory rape upon him, at least metaphorically.

Marty Froman was a nice guy, a state agent, who hurt me.

I could have gone without electricity.

I can’t survive without justice.

And emotionally, for making a buck off hurting me, I wanted him hurt.

~ * ~

Personally, he was already hurt.

Look at his face in the videos.

Marty mumbled something about a great personal loss, and I thought his grief showed.

~ * ~

What a mess.

~ * ~

At the very least, DHHS should have referred me to another state government agency, LARA, Licensing and Regulatory Affairs, which handles medical licensing.

Which I found on my own, like useless Legal Aid, years before.

~ * ~

LARA FOIA results from 2019 suggest that agency under Republicans Rick Snyder and Bill Schuette ignored and deleted my complaints made in 2013 to the agency against the doctor I never met who signed away my life away and the Catholic hospital, by name.

In 2019, it was too late to refile 2013 complaints.

~ * ~

I hadn’t yet found the term, but suicide gaslighting not allowed.

My patience with Marty Froman was gone.

Readers may recall I was suicide swatted twice in June 2016.

I knew, correctly, that I needed attention for the medical crime committed against me more than anything else.

I stand by my curt, cursing replies to Marty Froman:

“You fucking moron. you called the cops on me, but ignored Andrew Muzychya? 

Your department needs investigation.

You have done harm.

Fuck off.  Know you have done harm. “

Marty Froman suggests Claudean may have called DHHS, not Bill Schuette, but upholding a mystery was not appropriate for a woman, me, who had been mind raped and reported mind rape human trafficking.

It felt like on top of all his other injuries, Marty Froman was jerking me around regarding the application form.

So fill it out already, I thought!

Why all this jerk around?

On top of Bill Schuette’s documented retaliation?

~ * ~

I have records that show when I finally did get a lift from Someone to the Big Rapids DHHS office and fill out the DHHS welfare form, again.

I filled out the forms, again, fully expecting to be turned down again, like I was downstate in Garden City, under the same exact circumstances.

However, to get the free Safelink phone, I needed to be a welfare recipient.

That’s what I mean about poverty pulling a person down.

~ * ~

I was granted food stamps and healthcare around November 2016, my memory tells me.

My memory is being exercised with sand paper like rubbing.

~ * ~

I could add another chapter about the frustrating and also helpful quality of welfare health care, which took a great deal of time to utilize.

I really don’t want to add another chapter about welfare health care within this poverty section, though I have plenty to say and document.

~ * ~

I am trying to work my way through this narration to the end, to the finish line.

I need to file a complaint with the Judicial Tenure Commission.

I need to find a way to support myself, and very soon.

I need to save my life, so ironically, I can’t take the time to talk about our inefficient health care system.

I had to jump through a lot of hoops and spend a lot of time to get asthma inhalers and eventually, in Bay City, a cracked tooth pulled.

~ * ~

After Marty Froman stopped harassing me in 2016, I was assigned a case worker, Theresa Ruiz.

I have paperwork sent through the mail with her name and my human trafficking claims on it.

Believe me?

Do I need to load it?

I will.

If I have time.

~ * ~

DHHS did away with assigned caseworkers at some point.

~ * ~

Before that point, Kristi Barron took Marty Froman’s place, on August 25, 2017, the day I was arrested.

That was the first date on which I saw her.

No one wonder I hate her so much.

She did more damage than Marty Froman.

~ * ~

Supposedly, the purpose of the home visits was to help me fix my plumbing, which the state health and human department never did do. 

I was visited numerous times on a ruse.

Kristi Barron told me she was required to harass me monthly, but would not say who set me up with such hell.

I did not always take a video.

Marty Froman returned at least once.

Why?

~ * ~

I did not, violent body, mind, full life fuck by Livonia Catholic Jesus, need the state of Michigan to check on me monthly, and it continued to make me mad as hell.

I’m mad as hell right now.

~ * ~

The second of two local county social workers to visit me at home. Kristi Barron, even showed up to hover over me while I was incarcerated. 

Inside jail.

Twice!

How did show know I was in jail?

She would not say. 

~ * ~

When she showed up in jail, I had not yet had time to process the double hit I incurred on August 25, 2017.

I had not yet processed how I had seen Kristi Barron the morning I was arrested, showing up at the lakehouse with a Mecosta County cop and Theresa Ruiz, delivering a message that could have been and should have been delivered through the mail.

My welfare benefits had been extended, I was told.

Months before they expired.

News that should have simply be sent through the mail.

~ * ~

When she showed up in jail, Kristi Barron said she could not help me if I was in jail, but she never did help me, even after I got out of jail, though I sent estimates, progressively lower estimates until one met her $1,000.00 limit.

My last shared estimate was in her price range, as I recall.

But she would not give money up front for supplies, so said no, no, no.

~ * ~

After I got out of jail, I am just now more fully remembering.

Kristi Barron said she needed to make superficial physical contact with me monthly in order to help fix my plumbing, which she never did do.

Are all welfare recipients harassed like this?

~ * ~

Emotionally, in the land of make believe and imagination, I wanted to have her Jesus raped violently, or at least tortured, for torturing me.

I still do.

~ * ~

I am not a zoo animal the state needed to pet monthly and make sure I was still held in my cage.

~ * ~

No one would tell me who prompted the home visits.

DHHS says they have a law maintaining secrecy and possible corruption stronger than my right to know.

I need to appeal 2019 FOIA decisions withholding the answer.

~ * ~

Here’s Kristi Barron again, the last time I saw her?

On the fifth anniversary of my illegal looney bin lock up, February 22, 2018.

This harassment, February 22, 2018, occurred after jail.

(I was let out on bond, September 28, 2017.)

This harassment occurred before probation.

(Which did not begin until June 1, 2018, and was ended early, January 25, 2019, with the mysterious help of a troll on Facebook who liked politician Adolf Hitler and the Oakland County Sheriffs office.)

~ * ~

I discovered through use of FOIA that Mecosta County prosecutor ordered Kristi Barron, another woman, and a Mecosta County cop to harass me, February 22, 2018.

Documentation, proof, posted in the chapter on police harassment.

Do I need to repost it to save my life?

Will anything save my life at this point?

~ * ~

I was harassed on February 22, 2018 as ordered by the Mecosta County prosecutor for no real good reason whatsoever.

I think they were hoping to stir up reason to lock me up again.

Why else make this expenditure of human effort, three people, armed only with a gun and a total bull shit reason?

~ * ~

Watch these weasels remain silent as I ask they why they are there, at my door, on the anniversary of my illegal detainment in a looney bin due to the school’s attack.

Kristi Barron, her co-worker, and the Mecosta County cop turn and walk away when I start naming names.

The cop refuses to give me his name and badge number.

Kristi Barron refuses to identify herself, but I knew her face.

I wasn’t crazy out of mind unable to recognize her.

I had not reported any stolen signs for a very long time.

My civil rights sign display had been dismantled while I was jailed.

~ * ~

That day, about an hour before I was harassed, I had tweeted to the governor Rick Snyder and the attorney general Bill Schuette demanding an end to the witchhunt, with financial settlement.

Those Tweets exist.

I probably took screen shots.

I will post them when I find them.

If someone wants to search my Twitter account, they should be visible.

~ * ~

Chapter: Authorities Circled Me

On August 11, 2017, in the Mecosta County building, I attended a special hearing to fight the District #10 health department, which I requested to get them off my backs.

Survival, staying afloat, everything took forever meaning I certainly wasn’t able to find a way to make a living and keep the lakehouse, as I wanted very much to do.

I was forced to spend time applying for the fee waiver.

At the hearing, all sorts of formality was shown, including the presence of a court reporter, but the exercise was meaningless. The game was fixed from the start. 

The like three county commissioners from various counties in the District Health Department #10 area, heard and denied my appeal.

I received notice in jail.

The county commissioners at hearing refused to look at my pictures because one fat bitch (may edit later) of female commissioner from which county? I will recall . . . well, I read it was Shelley Pinkelman, from Crawford County, told me that I could have photographed someone else’s plumbing, in other words could have committed a kind of perjury, which is Jesus rape nonsense.

Randy Earnest, Sanitarian, the guy who condemned my house without really inspecting my plumbing was present at the hearing and could have confirmed whether the pictures were my plumbing or not.

Recall, I took a video with him at the same house not inspecting my plumbing but condemning my house.

It was said by this same woman before the proceedings while she sat in position talking about the current governor’s Republican primary that Bill Schuette wanted to be governor his whole life.

Swear to dog.

Immediately after the hearing, I lived in the condemned cabin hauling wood and water until the day I was arrested for attempted stalking the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2, two weeks later. 

I learned while incarcerated that my appeal had been denied.

That’s jailhouse pencil writing on the typed written denial of my appeal.

I am pretty sure the whole thing was about silencing me, not public health.

When I was sprung, the whole thing disappeared, never to be heard from again.

Note the last date on this sign.

August 25.

And there was a decision: Lock her up!

I bet it was planned that I would be arrested on August 25, because of my signs. The arrest report shows an infraction date of July 11, which corresponds with nothing.

~ * ~ 

Loops of my life overlapped, like barbed wire on a prison fence.

~ * ~

The day after the appeal hearing with the District Health Department #10, on Saturday August 12, 2017, the Land of Motown Lying Cops, husband and wife, pulled a stunt.

They were standing in their driveway.

I was painting civil rights signs in the road in front of the cabin.

Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 shouted at me from his driveway.

He shouted at me that I killed my husband Chris by poisoning him.

Which is absurd.

Meanwhile, the wife filmed my reaction.

At first, I ignored them, thinking about the irony of the situation.

I was not suppose to contact them.

They were shouting at me.

~ * ~

It wasn’t the first time they had tried to engage me during the personal protection order Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 requested.

Lying Cop #2 tried to stir up Hunter, my dog, by driving his ATV on my next door neighbor’s property like a mad man complete with look of deranged glee.

I was so proud. I swear, Hunter knew they guy was up to no good. Hunter just ignored him.

Other times, husband or wife drove by me solo on ATVs while I was walking Hunter on the road.

Once or twice I raised a power fist symbol in response, in order to gather courage, did not speak to them and kept going.

~ * ~

On August 12, when the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops were looking for a reaction, I knew.

But, instead of going into the house, as Lying Cop #2 continued to egg me on, asking if I killed my husband by poisoning him, I began singing John Lennon, Power to the People.

It’s not illegal to sing, is it?

The footage taken by Lying Cop #2’s wife was used to arrest me, according to Michigan State Police reports.

The Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops told the Michigan State Police incorrectly, on purpose, that I was in their driveway yelling at them.

~ * ~

I called the cops August 12, when the Land of Motown Community College Lying cops pulled their stunt.

I debated with myself.

I was afraid.

Would I believed and taken seriously?

Would the move back fire?

I think it did.

~ * ~

A nice cop showed up. Mecosta County. Add one to the tally.

My mistake? He asked if I wanted him to talk to Lying Cop#2, and stupidly, I surmise now, I said no.

The cop advised against it, so I went with his advisement not to stir the pot.

Officer Koepke was a very nice guy who made a show of talking with me in the street for a while.

We discussed his trip downstate with his kids to catch a Detroit Tiger’s baseball game.

I told him his name reminded me of the name of the cop in Westside Story, Officer Krupke.

“Gee, Officer Krupke, we’re down on out knees, cuz no one wants a fellow with a social disease!”

~ * ~

True to nature, as often described, of Virgos like me being detail-oriented, I got the recording of the 911 call I made.

I tried to explain why I was afraid.

Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop was clearly not afraid of me.

I had reason to be afraid of him.

~ * ~

On August 25, 2017, in the first part of the day, around noon, I think, on the day when the District #10 Health department was to decide my appeal, I was visited in the morning by Krista Barron and Theresa Ruiz, from DHHS, accompanied by a Mecota County cop (add one to the tally).

I forgot what the bullshit reason was until I watched video again.

It was a ruse.

They could have mailed word of my welfare renewal, which was not yet due.

I can’t tell you how upsetting it is, not by count, or in words, how painful it is to know they wanted to silence me, one way or another.

They wanted to stir me into another looney bin lock up, I bet.

Why send so many people for no real reason?

“Decision August 25,” I had advertised on my civil protest sign.

I bet the date of my bogus arrest was no accident.

I now see DHHS and Mecosta County was likely willing to abduct me to a looney bin on the morning of August 25, 2017.

~ * ~

Later that same say, I was visited by Norma Nail-her, Brittany Campbell and some tall skinny young under-cooked white male cop.

First and only time females dominated among cops who have harassed me.

I took a short video before they cuffed me.

I was going for my second camera phone when Norma Nail-her got me.

~ * ~

Bogus jail on top of bogus looney bin?

What is this hell?

I was just a progressive school teacher trying to do my job as advocate for students when this all started.

~ * ~

Once I was thrown in the slammer, the health department dropped its interest 100%.

I received in jail a denial to my appeal, but I never heard from them again.  

~ * ~

You haven’t discussed jail yet. 

You’re building a case for your own innocence.  

You hope people believe you.

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Read Part Eight