Coloring with the Catholics: My Story of Criminal Mental Health Care and Higher Ed Gaslighting in Larry Nassar’s Michigan (New Part Seven): Am I the Only Case of Runaway Criminal Suicide Gaslighting Unchecked? Jesus Raped Me for Sure, Fox News!

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 Seven Chapter Titles:

• Suicide Swatted Again by Land of Motown Community College, Not Friends, Or A Trip to the Looney Bin Insures Loneliness
• Suicide Swatted Again by Land of Motown Community College, June 9, 2014
• I Wish I Were Suicidal At this Point, But I Am Not
• They Call it Garbage City
• Fateful Encounters: Garbage City Chief of Police Bob Meury and Artist Camille Claudel
• Jesus Raped Me, Fox News

Chapter: Suicide Swatted Again by Land of Motown Community College, Not Friends Or A Trip to the Looney Bin Insures Loneliness

Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me again on, June 9, 2014, the same day I broke up with all three friends who visited me in the looney bin.

I think I need to record their names.

St. Mary Merciless left blank the spot for “visitors” on its erased staff records.

Melissa Andrade of Farmington, Michigan, Paula Nedzinskas of Dearborn, Michigan, Karen Rogers of Livonia, Michigan, at least two of three married last names of husbands.

~ * ~

These three tax paying citizens of Michigan, USA, visited me while I was held.

They did not know me be to be suicidal.

They did not know me to be in need of mental ward lock up.

They did not call the Livonia Police asking for a welfare check.

~ * ~

Coincidentally, or maybe not, I fought with two of the three on June 9, 2014, the day Land of Motown Community college suicide swatted me again, following its crime on February 22, 2013.

~ * ~

When the top cop from Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me again, he alerted the Garden City cops, this time, to my Facebook page, where I had posted many things, including a sarcastic meme from the HBO series Veep starring Julia Louis Dreyfus.

I also shared a picture of an native American woman from a tribal Facebook page.

Something like this:

When I FOIAed Garden City for the police and dispatch records, they sent me black and white print outs of my own Facebook page, like that was supposed to be meaningful to me, and explain the reason for police harassment.

The woman pictured in silhouette above is Zitkala-Sa, or Gertrude Bonnin, a native american writer whom I’ve read.

Ironically, one of the things I posted about apparently concerned a free speech decision in the Supreme Court covered by the Detroit Free Press.

I am trying to find the Detroit Free Press article I shared June 9, 2014, about the Supreme Court and free speech.

Should I pay $7.95 for access?

To find one article?

In my current financial straits?

~ * ~

Incidentally, on June 9, 2014, I posted these images and newspaper reprints for a feeling of fake community.

~ * ~

It’s trite, but loneliness has become my best friend.

~ * ~

I didn’t have a lot of active friends before I was murdered by mental health care, and I have none now. 

In my childhood and younger adulthood, I made friends easily, always had a best friend, and a group or two of gang members, cheerleaders, dancers, seekers.

Good company.

I used to be charming.

~ * ~

Things change as people move, marry and have children, or not.

~ * ~

~ * ~

I want to say something about my best friends in my twenties and thirties, spread across the country, at least one dead, not great in number, but I thought, for a time, no longer, our bonds were strong.

Pictures are lost and out of reach, as our other humans to me.

~ * ~

It hurts so much that these two particular friends dumped me.

How does someone name you godmother of her children, then dump you because of your looney bin story?

That’s the answer.

People dump you because of your looney bin story.

~ * ~

I judge. I can’t help it.

How does someone become a Christian mental health therapist?

Wow, the worst combination I can think of to create the danger for human playing god.

~ * ~

I told my friend on the phone, since he was foolish enough to pick up, my bind. He believed me, but told me to give up fighting Big Mental Health. Which I thought was lousy advice, emotionally and practically.

~ * ~

Perhaps, we were no longer meant to be friends. Growing pains on top of looney bin lock up. It’s complicated.

~ * ~

Can someone believe in Jesus as the son of god because they believe in the world of the diagnostic manual of the trade, which labels people things that don’t even exist?

“Personality disorder” like a resurrected Jesus?

~ * ~

Yes, we were already broken apart, living apart, this group of three, distant old friends, who did not see each other or talk much.

Still, in my heart that’s been broken too many times over, not by romance but isolation, I’m concerned about what these two think about me now, if they think of me at all, if they think I’m crazy, if they think I became crazy, what they would tell others after I . . . .

~ * ~

Exact likely bad ending of my story still unwritten.

~ * ~

Megan Schanstra of upstate New York.

Brian Henderson of Billerica, Massachusetts.

~ * ~

It’s complicated.

I’m not sure about this.

~ * ~

The murdered who can do so name names.

Documentation and diary.

I’m still fighting for my own resurrection.

I may change my mind and erase names.

I am not trying to cause any additional damage.

~ * ~

There are a few other far-flung distant old friends, I thought close old friends.

I was not, before the attack, in my private life an un-liked person.

But I am now, it seems, and old friends have all vanished.

~ * ~

In my previous life as a college writing teacher, I worked a lot of hours and spent off time with my husband and dogs outside, in our garden downstate and at the cabin and lake up north. 

~ * ~

Like Madonna, I had gotten the hell out of Michigan. I moved to Los Angeles, California, then greater Boston, Massachusetts, but returned to Michigan twenty years later. I returned to a couple of old friends and made one new one at yoga. 

~ * ~

Again, correcting the female student intern in the St. Mary Merciless emergency room, the dumb broad responsible for locking me up, friends DID NOT call the Livonia Police worried that I was suicidal, not on February 22, 2013 or on june 9, 2014, or at any time during this ordeal, though others have called, too many others have.

~ * ~

Once my s.o.s sent via Facebook was successfully released from inside Catholic Siberia on February 24, 2013, two calendar dates after I was locked up, and reached The Clown’s husband, word got around.

All three of my area female, middle aged friends kindly visited me in Catholic Siberia, which I appreciated.

I was embarrassed to be seen behind enemy lines, captured, targeted, locked up by the state of Michigan and the Felician nuns of my youth, in a psychiatric ward, for no clear apparent reason.

My three female middle aged friends were free to come and go, but not me.

And that is not okay.

~ * ~

While visiting, The Clown took pictures of me pretending try to kill myself inside the looney bin, using my husband’s New Zealand Maori bone carving necklace, hanging on a thin rope around my neck.

Which I wore the entire unneeded week I was held in Catholic Siberia.

That was funny.

Staging pictures of false suicide while I was locked up falsely inside a psychiatric ward on bogus charges of suicide ideation.

~ * ~

Ha ha.

~ * ~

I could have committed mayhem with that piece of tribal art, if I had wanted. 

~ * ~

St. Mary Merciless staff were not actually attentive or concerned about my safety or my behavior, please note.

~ * ~

All three friends wondered why I was there, locked inside Catholic Siberia, while I was there.

But they did not retain their curiosity, it seems, after I got out.

~ * ~

Life goes on after the looney bin, but only for others, not this inmate, who was human trafficked by sexist godless lying Catholics to make a buck of her hide.

And that is not okay.

~ * ~

No one knows my full true story but me.

And that is not okay, either, because my story is killing me.

~ * ~

All three friends who visited me while I was held unnecessarily in Catholic Siberia were no good to me afterwards, when it was easy for them, but not me, to forget and dismiss. 

Friends would not and could not help me sleuth what had happened or help me win justice. 

~ * ~

It’s probably not a coincidence that Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me on the day I fought with my Ladywood classmate.

We fought on Facebook in public.

I still think it was and is my Ladywood classmate’s duty to advocate for me to the Felician nuns and Catholic Church.

She disagreed.

I want to forgive her inability to act on my behalf and rid myself of this entire weight.

~ * ~

The Clown I fought with on my phone, through text messages, evidence of which I posted to Facebook the next day, June 10, 2014.

~ * ~

I had not seen The Clown, who does not do Facebook, in months.

She was becoming difficult for me to be around, because she did not understand, and I knew she did not understand.

She had been telling me, over and over (a frustrated very talented actress turned bookkeeper).

You should have seen her as Helen Keller in the Miracle Worker in high school.

I’m still disappointed she didn’t purse a professional career.

She got lot in sexism instead.

She did not understand my Facebook diary and documentation, that she was worried, but she supported me no matter what.

I thought I watched her act growing thin.

Her only child was graduating high school and had enlisted in the army, which did not sit well with The Clown.

I thought she was projecting her issues onto me, not looking at my issues when she spoke to me, so I pulled away.

For self protection.

I think this was our last communication, five years ago.

We use to be best friends.

Diary and documentation.

Looney bin lock up equals social isolation.

~ * ~

My yoga teacher appeared to unfriend me, I noticed June 9, 2014, also on Facebook, all before I was suicide swatted in the afternoon by Land of Motown Community College.

~ * ~

I don’t recall having any argument with her at all.

~ * ~

She had started a woman’s group that she invited me to attend, which I did.

It was new, a good idea, I guess, but still finding it’s way, in search of a focus.

~ * ~

I can play well with others, but I have trouble playing with people who aren’t special, who aren’t one-offs, who aren’t above average, who don’t follow societal cues but instead create their own path.

I had written and published a feminist tome and was far beyond my initial feminist awakening and childhood midwestern Michigan mindset.

I was not comfortable telling this small group of women my story, which is what I needed to do.

I was bored with the group. I could not not judge. One woman was set on turkey basting another child into the world to enslave a new husband, who already had kids. I told my yoga teacher and friend I would not continue with the group, but thanks.

I don’t think I mentioned the turkey baster to her, but maybe I did.

~ * ~

I believe my former yoga teacher and friend did write the governor on my behalf.

She said she did, so I believe her.

She was community-minded. She served on her local community in some perhaps internally elected community-promotion position, I think, if I recall correctly.

I did not see the letter.

I don’t know what she said to Rick Snyder on my behalf.

~ * ~

Throughout this ordeal, I have sent formal letters to a long list of government officials with pounds of documentation, as my story and my own paper trail has grown.

Only Bill Schuette and Rich Cunningham in the Detroit Michigan attorney general’s office have responded to my particular claims, and they did so in a peculiar fashion.

Immediately after I was evicted, right after “Jesus Raped Me.”

They protested too much.

In writing.

Documented.

Like they never expected me to survive and document within a narration online like I am.

~ * ~

This story has been very hard to round up and tell to others.

There is no short version.

And never was.

On purpose.

And it only gets worse, longer, more details, more documents.

But documentation is necessary when falsely accused of psychosis.

~ * ~

Really, call me grandiose, like Land of Motown Community College hack shrink #1, The Wolf, if you life, even within my earshot, but if any of the three women who visited me in Catholic Siberia, my former female friends, had been cruelly locked up in a mental ward by their employer and hometown police, in order to silence and get rid of them, I swear, I would have fought publicly for them.

Like they were not willing or able to do for me.

~ * ~

Overtime, I could not be around these women because they could not help me or understand what I was going through. 

~ * ~

Friends let me go because . . . well, they would need to say why. 

In the years that have passed without contact, I fear all former contacts have caved in and joined the opposition.

I fear all former contacts have dismissed me as crazy.

Which is not as much a vestige of paranoia, as much as it is intellectual calculation about the combined effects of self-protection, sexism, the sway of the Catholic Church, and widespread belief in psychiatry and its psychobabble.

~ * ~ 

Do NOT come at me with that low-level psycho babble about me pushing people away.

I was not born a defect that needed to be housed separately due to “mental illness” and marked forever defective.

~ * ~

My three female friends who visited me in Catholic Siberia deserved to be locked up for a week in Catholic Siberia by the state of Michigan as much as I did.

~ * ~

I was not born this way.

Criminal mental abuse came much later.

~ * ~

Chapter: Suicide Swatted Again by Land of Motown Community College, June 9, 2014

I fear a lot. 

And often. 

Caution is reasonable. 

Police can swoop down, pick me up and take me away at any time.

They have, twice.

February 22, 2013 and August 25, 2017.

I was not abducted by Garden City police on June 9, 2014, thankfully.

I fear being abducted again, which is not fairly called paranoia in my case.

~ * ~

Rest assured, the cops did eventually recapture me, and they took me to jail the second time, on bogus charges, created by a Land of Motown Community College Cop, a second lying cop, with a second home at Lake Miramichi, a lying cop employed by my suicide swatter downstate.

But that wasn’t for another three years, two years ago.

~ * ~

Occupying a good portion of me, and a good portion of my time awake, I dread completing this draft.

I don’t know if my psyche can handle it.

But how else can I try to make my story known?

~ * ~

Before the cops abducted me again, they harassed the hell out of me.

They still are.

~ * ~

Hoping to silence me, Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me a second time over a year after I was forced to quit, June 9, 2014. 

Two Garden City cops were not caring during a hostile, weaponized, unneeded and very unwanted welfare check.

~ * ~

I know who suicide swatted me because I obtained the police report, which names clearly the instigator, the same top school cop from Land of Motown Community College who suicide swatted me February 22, 2013. 

~ * ~

Quickly, my finances crashed while I was holed up in Garden City, which caused great stress on top of depression and the array of emotions caused by gaslighting and criminal mental abuse, especially the pain of society, everyone, not calling what happened to me a crime and everyone trying to erase and forget it.

And assume I should too.

Everyone.

~ * ~

Over a span of a couple years in Garden City, I lost my cellphone, transportation, internet connection and the unthinkable: I had to sell the widescreen tv for which my husband had paid no less one thousand dollars.

The hock shop gave me little for it.

I have receipts in my hard files.

~ * ~

I lived on the money I made by walking some thing, like bicycles, an extension ladder or jewelry, down to the hock shop at the end of Deering Street and talking the guy into buying it, if I was lucky.

~ * ~

I had to sell anything and everything I could.

Eventually, I ran out of money and food.

I became my adult thinness, about 5 foot 8 inches and half, dipping under 150 lbs, which I liked.

I feel much better slim and mobile.

~ * ~

Hunter and I jogged the neighborhood daily.

~ * ~

Trying to sell my Honda, which should have been much easier to do, for a stretch I lived off ten to fifteen dollars in groceries per week.

I shopped for whole chickens and discount produce at the Kroger’s, which was within walking distance.

By the end of this stretch, I walked to the Garden City Library, which was further than Kroger’s.

I used the internet, and there at the city complex, also I got canned goods from the food pantry.

~ * ~

When Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me again, I still had a running car, but not for long.

I know I still had a running car because I got a moving violation coming out of the courthouse complex, after making the FOIA request.

I was angry about Land of Motown Community College suicide swatting me again.

I did not read the sucker punch NO TURN sign, as I turned.

I did not hit anyone or anything, but I got a ticket.

~ * ~

Due to my experience February 22, 2013, when I was suicide swatted the first time, I know now that police report writing follows the phone call to police dispatch and the disingenuous misleading faxed Facebook post.

I know now the police report is shaped after the fact to fit the police version of the story.

I know now that police report writing is all about protecting police from legal action, regardless of what’s fair or best for the citizen.

~ * ~

The point was always to silence me, not protect me.

~ * ~

These hard facts does not sit well with a former writing teacher, who worked so very hard to call herself a good community college composition writing teacher, an endeavor which is much heavier lifting than most peer assignments, in other disciplines, like psychology, I must point out.

Computer-corrected multiple choice tests.

Humppf.

~ * ~

Again, I obtained my suicide swatters criminal phone call to the police, as well as his pushy paperwork, and of course the Garden City follow up police report.

~ * ~

In his recorded phone call, which he had to know I would again access through FOIA, my repeat criminal suicide swatter, top cop for Land of Motown Community College, sounds like a resolute liar, with his crooked cop heels dug in.

Dug into to my grave.

“ex employee”

“lives in your city now”

“I’m told” by my nemesis.

Outright purposeful lie: “actually posting with ideation of suicide today”

~ * ~

This criminal cop had the audacity, in conjunction with Land of Motown Community College, to arrange and accept a national award for his work in public safety, prior to retirement, in April 2018.

Sickening and disrespectful to me: ‘Terry McCauley said OCC campus members bring the college’s middle name, ‘community,’ to life.”

~ * ~

I hate to be rude, unfair or unpleasant, but are white male police cadets with a tendency toward sexism and lying recruited by police departments?

Are white male police in Michigan trained to be sexist?

How consciously do they lie?

“Chief McCauley (director of Public Safety for Oakland Community College) called me to advise me . . .”

AWFULLY CHUMMY:

“that he viewed some face book posts from a former school employee, Gina Fournier, and in the posts she stated that she was going to kill herself.”

NO, I DID NOT STATE I WAS GOING TO KILL MYSELF, ILLITERATE, SEXIST, WHITE MALE COP.

“One particular post from Fournier caught my eye. It stated the following:

“Hey. Oakland Community College (Official), witch hunter, I am going to kill myself. I repeat, Oakland Community College, I am going to kill myself. Still reading my page? Are you the silent follower? Still supposedly concerned about my well being, or (as always) your bottom line and ability to save rotten face? No longer want to be involved? Hope I do kill myself and no one cares? That would be my guess. Gawkers. I want to die simply to finally move forward, though I am still not suicidal. Money or mercy. And if you have used me? I wish you well, Namaste.”

I was sarcastic, clearly.

Clearly, I was baiting the college on purpose to see if they were still monitoring me.

Land of Motown Community College was still monitoring me.

~ * ~

Police report written the next day by a Garden City cop not on the scene continues:

“I had two units dispatched to do a welfare check on Fournier to make sure that she was ok. I have dealt with Fournier in the past . . .”

WHEN? WHAT IS THIS LYING COP RANTING ABOUT? STOP DISPARAGING ME!

“and know that she was let go from OCC a couple of years ago,”

WRONG! ARGO FUCK YOURSELF! I WAS FORCED TO QUIT!

~ * ~

Did my suicide swatter talk to this Garden City cop beyond the 911 dispatch call that was released through FOIA?

~ * ~

~ * ~

Another white male with no compunction, no reserve, but full willingness to malign me.

” . . . is very bitter and resentful about what happened. She has made her thoughts known about how she feels about the college, and anyone that was part of her dismissal there.”

WHO GAVE YOU THE WRONG INFORMATION?

WHY WERE YOU SO READY TO BELIEVE THE WRONG INFORMATION?

WHY WERE YOU UNWILLING TO LISTEN AND BELIEVE A FEMALE?

~ * ~

Sexism here is located in the attribution of feelings, dismiss-able female feelings, in world where men act and assume they were born to run the place.

~ * ~

“She has also made known, on face book how she feels about Livonia PD and St. Marys hospital because of an incident that happened with them in the past.”

A SERIES OF HEINOUS CRIMES WERE COMMITTED AGAINST ME, FOR WHICH I HAVE POSTED EVIDENCE AND TOLD MY STORY ON FACEBOOK. DIARY AND DOCUMENTATION.

“After reading quite a few of her posts, it appears to me that she is using the social media outlet to taunt anyone she feels wronged her in the past.”

ACTIVE VERB CHOICE “TAUNT” REVEALS SEXIST BIAS. FOR ONE THING, PEOPLE CAME TO ME TO READ MY POSTS. THAT’S NOT TAUNTING.

MORE CRITICALLY, I DON’T SIMPLY “FEEL” WRONGED.

RATHER, I AM THE DOCUMENTED VICTIM OF CRIME AND ATTACK POLICE REFUSE TO RECOGNIZE DUE TO SEXIST BLINDERS.

“Officer’s Matigan and Kozloff were dispatched to the residence, and when they arrived they observed Fournier in the back yard attending to her flowers. They asked her several times if she wanted to kill herself, to which she replied ‘No’ every time, and they stated the she even seemed insulted that they were asking her the question.”

THE COPS WERE NOT WELCOME, PEACEUL OR CARING.

“While they were there they stated that her demeanor was very derogatory and insulting throughout their entire contact with her.”

THIS POLICE REPORT SUMMARY WAS WRITTEN AFTER MY COMMENTARY POSTED ON FACEBOOK.

DID THIS COP READ MY COMMENTARY, ABOUT THE COPS BEING ABRASIVE AND RUDE?

“They state that she snapped several photographs of them and made statements like, ‘I don’t trust white cops.'”

DO NOT MAKE UP QUOTATIONS!

I DON’T TRUST POORLY TRAINED SEXIST WHITE MALE COPS!

“They left the location without incident, satisfied that she did not want to harm herself.”

Chapter: I Wish I Were Suicidal At this Point, But I am Not

To date, I have made numerous Freedom of Information Act requests and dealt with police at ten police agencies across Michigan: Land of Motown Community College, Livonia, Garden City, Michigan State Police, Osceola County, Mecosta County, Bay City, Bay County, and Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College.

All solely due to bogus mental health care and its havoc.

Previously, I had never had earned more than the attention of a parking ticket or moving violation.

No arrest, no abduction.

~ * ~

Who exactly keeps calling the cops saying I am suicidal?

Cops have harassed me when I have been crying, but cops have also harassed me when I wasn’t crying.

~ * ~

I am not suicidal. 

No one ever used that word in conjunction with me until the Land of Motown Community College attack. 

I am not suicidal. 

~ * ~

Teacher to teacher bullying.

Gaslighting.

Hack shrinks.

Suicide swatting.

New to my story only! Suicide gaslighting!!!

Being trafficked in a mental ward.

Retaliation.

All this mistreatment has required protests that invoke “suicide,” but cops across Michigan have not looked or listened closely enough to my actual story.

~ * ~

I am mentally tortured by criminal mental health care and lack of justice for the crimes committed against me. 

I am hopeless.

I am traumatized.

I am depressed.

I am alone among humans.

I need my name cleared and the record set straight from the Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witchhunt, and its devastating after effects.

I need some form of justice and resolution for criminal mental health care, gaslighting, suicide swatting, suicide gaslighting (a horrible thing to do to a person), illegal looney bin lock up, retaliation, and the resulting social ostracization and isolation.

~ * ~

I do not suffer from a chemical imbalance.

I am not innately defective.

I am not this horrible label “mentally ill,” different from the likes of most of you out there.

~ * ~

There is a difference between being suicidal and being tortured by false claims of suicide.

~ * ~

After Land of Motown Community College suicide swatted me a second time, others have taken over.

Neighbors who were not known to me called the police a few times because they’ve heard me cry.

Crying and anguish do not equal suicide.

Even suicide swatting and suicide gaslighting do not equal suicide, in my case.

~ * ~

Disturbingly, during the Jeremiah Johnson/Little House on the Prairie section of this tale, police seemed to generate their own responses or take cues from above.

Up north, among the backwoods, off the grid folk who lean very conservative, police reports stopped naming suicide swatters.

Which isn’t right.

Which does not protect the citizen, me, from hostile attack.

~ * ~

I thought documenting and sharing evidence of my pain was fair, though wrought with drawbacks.

I still do.

I’ve taken panic attack videos, loaded them on Youtube, and then taken them down, repeatedly, since 2016 living in isolation at Lake Miramichi, isolation that still cuts me off from the experience of most of humanity.

It is my responsibility to myself and also an opportunity for people to say I’m crazy.

This is why I say I am trapped, trapped by criminal mental health care, and tortured.

My life is so unlivable, I wish I were suicidal, but I am not.

~ * ~

But.

Like the faces of the theater, I have fought unhappy emotion with laughter, or tried.

~ * ~

Though I have been forced to move four times, I’ve stayed in the Mitten to hold my claims. 

I got nowhere else to go. 

~ * ~

As I write this summary narration, trying to save my life, I find myself living in Bay City, Michigan, Madonna’s birthplace. 

While writing this narrative, the cops showed up again, state cops, when I was inside my home crying. 

Multiple times.

Close-by neighbors renting in this row of well-maintained duplexes have called because they hear me crying.

Crying does not equal suicide.

~ * ~

No question, the neighbors deserve peace and quiet.

But where am I supposed to go with my pain?

I have suggested justice, but you didn’t like that idea.

~ * ~

When the cops arrive, from Bay County, from the state barracks, from Bay City, and for sure in Osceola and Mecosta County, they behave as if their only goal is to make sure I am still suffering from criminal mental abuse.   

~ * ~

You can watch numerous video recordings on Youtube of police ignoring my story between the end of 2015, starting with Bill Schuette’s men in blue, through the spring of 2019.

Why aren’t police agencies in the state of Michigan better coordinated?

~ * ~

Of course, I cry. 

I know what I need.

Being pushed, poked and impoverished isn’t it.

Chapter: They Call it Garbage City

The dismissive name for Garden City is Garbage City, another apt metaphor for my life.

Someone told me too late that the dismissive name for Garden City Hospital, where Chris died, is the Garden City Morgue.

Same goes double for St. Mary Merciless.

His and her killer hospitals.

~ * ~

Things in Garbage City grew worse despite wishful thinking.

I applied for welfare but was turned down.

~ * ~

Eventually I got kicked out of the Garden City library, as I recall it, which sounds horrible, and something like the sure start of a life of hardened crime.

At one point, a police cruiser followed me and a Garden City cop, another white male, pulled me over while I was walking, blocks away from the library, to yell at me on the street.

I was walking on the side walk, adjacent to a city park,and near the home of a snow man, though it was summer.

I was not creating a public disturbance.

~ * ~

My side of the Garden City library story?

I made too much noise, mostly crying while I used the internet, sometimes laughing.

The library was very small, with computers crammed together on top of the circulation desk.

~ * ~

I don’t want to wait another minute before thanking the all-female staff of librarians, later, up north, in Evart, who let me cry without kicking me out once, who were very, very nice to me.

For years.

Thank you!

~ * ~

The place for dating online downstate, meaning the Garden City library, was run by a white male who stood over all-female subordinates, which I could easily deduce given the tight space.

~ * ~

During this period, an especially painfully low spot occurred when the Livonia Catholics sued me!

I opened an account at the Livonia Parishes Federal Credit union in second grade as a student at St. Mikes, run by those god damn Felician nuns, of St. Mary Merciless Catholic Siberia, who excelled at discipline and instilling sexism.

I was unable to pay off my credit card, solely because of the Land of Motown Community College attack and my illegal lock up by the Felician nuns’ criminally run human trafficking mental ward, which I did not need, which only caused damage.

Livonia Catholics might have realized I was broke, if only they were better coordinated.

The school closed after the 2018 school year citing low enrollment.

The bewildered nun interviewed below calls the school “classy.”

When I attended, the quality of education fell short of actually preparing students for college, even with low college standards at many transfer schools.

If the school had become classy, alumni and the school would have advocated for me as I asked formally, but they did not.

My full records as presented here should be reviewed.

My claims about being set up for St. Mary Merciless looney bin, not suicidal, should be accepted, verified, and my name should be cleared.

The Detroit News: “Head of School and President Tracey Mocon said she wanted an opportunity for everyone in the community to ‘celebrate the legacy of Ladywood and all of the women that graduated from here.’ “

‘My hope for my students is that they will continue to keep their faith,’ she said. ‘That was always our priority here at our school. Faith.’ “

Blind faith in Catholicism, I agree 100%.

The priority at Ladywood I knew was certainly not intellectual development or spiritual honesty.

Chapter: Fateful Encounters: Garbage City Chief of Police Bob Meury and artist Camille Claudel

Between 2016 and the present, like passing a baton, other parties beside Land of Motown Community College and unfamiliar neighbors have joined the police effort to use me like a human pin cushion. 

Worst of all, in Garbage City, this battalion of the misguided included the disingenuous chief of Garden City police, Bob Meury, and my estranged Catholic mother, Eugenia Jeanne Grzywacz, and brother, Rodney Fournier, both of whom I find extremely disturbing.

~ * ~

It was November 2014.

The electricity was off.

I was out of money.

Chief of Police Bob Meury knocked on my door.

~ * ~

What About Bob?

There are two versions of the story of Bob.

One version, the first, naive: The Garden City Chief of Police showed up, gave me fifty bucks, paid for the electricity to be put back on, and complimented my writing on Facebook! He said his men on the force told him about me and my Facebook page!

Yes, it was too good to believe.

Second version, less naive: The Garden City Chief of Police showed up, gave me fifty bucks, had a friend at the electric company turn back on the juice, but really my suicide swatter at Land of Motown Community College called him, said I was nutz, and they both hated my Facebook writing.

~ * ~

I ran into Bob on the street the following spring something crazy like coincidentally two days in a row while walking Hunter or to the library.

I was onto him by that point, so I asked Bob who really alerted him to my Facebook page.

I asked him two days in a row.

The second day, without naming names he named my Land of Motown Community College suicide swatter, but Bob was not happy with me or my questions.

Bob told me he didn’t like my Facebook, and that I would better off without it.

~ * ~

Verbally, I played with Bob a little the second day, and even did some dance moves outside his suv window.

I celebrated my loss of naivete with exuberance and high kick, spur of the moment.

Remember, I was younger and in decent shape.

I swear his body language suggested Bob may have had his gun pointed at me through his car door.

Bob was scowling at me.

Bob was no longer the same Bob who gave me fifty bucks and fake compliments.

But then Bob was never that other Bob anyway.

~ * ~

Six months later.

The Garden City police showed up again when I was hungry.

Online, I’m sure I said something but something nuanced about suicide swatting and hunger.

I opened the door on April 29, 2015, and I saw one cop standing on the front poor in Garden City looking at me.

He reminded of a Sesame Street character, Burt of Burt and Ernie.

He asked if I wanted to kill myself.

I shouted No!

And slammed the door in his face.

~ * ~

When I FOIAed the Garden City cops about who called them and requested a welfare check, I decided to see if they would also release any records about Bob’s November 2014 visit.

No records were released to explain Bob’s visit.

~ * ~

What I did discover burned me to my core.

My idiot brother, Rodney Fournier, called the Garden City cops.

We had not seen each others in years.

~ * ~

My idiot brother did not bother to call me directly.

My idiot brother, who had moved back to Michigan, I believe, after divorce in Alabama, and who may have been living with my mother a few miles away, did not knock on my door.

~ * ~

My estranged disturbed Catholic mother and her only son, my only sibling, act like the mother and brother of real-life French sculptor Camille Claudel. 

~ * ~

There was a 1989 movie. 

I have not yet seen the more recent Juliet Binoche version of Camille Claudel’s story.

~ * ~

I think I may object to any fictional portrayal that says Claudel was crazy.

She can’t defend herself.

I object to ghost psychiatry and playing god.

~ * ~

The Hollywood Reporter suggests that the more recent film, which was released in the same month of my own illegal looney bin lock up, was shot through a prism of unchecked sexism.

But that’s me reviewing a movie without seeing it.

~ * ~

I rely on the Odile Ayral-Clause biography, supported with documentation. 

~ * ~

Camille Claudel died in 1943, after being held unnecessarily for 30 years in a mental asylum due to the request of her cruel and Catholic closest family members, her mother and brother, against the advice of her doctors.  

Claudel’s story and her artwork are both fabulous, but in darker shades of the term.

Claudel’s small sculpture, The Wave, is the best figurative expression of sexism that I have ever encountered. 

A trinity of women hold hands to form a triangle. 

They stand under and together look up at a green onyx wave about to crush them.  They know the wave is big, but they can’t know how big until it crushes them.

~ * ~

Fateful Encounters.

Talk about coincidences.

Fate?

In 2005-2006, a touring show pairing the sculpture of lovers Auguste Rodin and Camille Claudel only appeared in three U.S. cities; Detroit was one of them.

Chris and I went to see the show at The Detroit Institute of Arts.

~ * ~

Of course I’m biased, but I don’t think that Claudel was nutz.

Sexism likes the image of a crazy old woman.

The historical artifacts of Claudel’s life are open to interpretation, but has anyone considered that perhaps she was speaking metaphorically when she said Rodin, the one who reaped all the glory, poisoned her?

~ * ~

There is no doubt Claudel’s life was bound by sexism.

There is no confirmation that she was mentally ill.

There is no proof that mental illness exists.

Her own doctors suggested her release, but her mother and brother said no.

~ * ~

I say its likely Camille Claudel was worn down and silenced by sexism and nothing more.

~ * ~

Chapter : Jesus Raped Me, Fox News

Ultimately, it seems onlookers believe, ‘Just be positive and forget about it,’ is the best they can say or do. 

I’ve tried it. 

I try over and over. 

I return to the light, fight my way back after blows. 

However, being positive alone simply does not work to overcome your own murder. 

~ * ~

Because I have not shut up in my quest for vindication, and because I cry when in pain, police have hounded me.  I think there are other reasons as well underneath the surface of my big crying face for the fact that police have hounded me.   

Retaliation.

Which began on purpose when I was vulnerable.

~ * ~

I began losing my home and garden, in Garden City, Michigan, to foreclosure. 

I was so overwhelmed, and I felt so powerless.

I can’t find a picture of what was inside the envelope below, but I did not realize that a handwritten scribble on a scrap of paper could actually represent an authentic sizable cash offer to move out sooner without further hassle.

I doubted the note could be real.

The note was practically illiterately written, I thought, and therefore could not be real.

I didn’t have a phone.

Don from Century 21 did not try very hard to connect with me.

~ * ~

Desperate, again. 

Seeking positive media attention, I spray painted my own house with the metaphor, “Jesus raped me.” 

~ * ~

If you’re in my tribe, and I explain it to you in person, there is little flinching in response.

~ * ~

Metaphor.  First Amendment.  Civil protest.  Twitter-length talk.  

Not word salad. 

My body, my mind. 

I was a tenured published fully grown adult when my Mitten State nightmare began. 

I escaped the Livonia Catholics as a youth, but they recaptured me, in modern America, replacing the U. S. Constitution with the crucifix, and shoved it right up my craw. 

That’s certainly the way it feels and seems to me.

~ * ~

Please know that I don’t seek to paint the world ugly. 

I wish things were very, very different.

~ * ~ 

I repainted my inflammatory civil protest with the more upbeat “Act Peace,” but was ignored. 

Twice, in two separate Michigan towns. 

~ * ~

Act peace, scream murder, figuratively speaking. 

Document formally.

~ * ~

My home and my story were slipping away. 

I needed to take bold action. 

I created a front lawn display of multiple civil rights protest signs. 

I had already removed unnecessary interior doors to create more flow, less obstruction. 

Handily (boy did I give myself credit for ingenuity), I used as canvases for my signs the already-removed doors.

Attorney General: Bust Pope? 

The head of the Catholic Church was in town. 

The Pope was speaking to the U.S. Congress. 

“MI Got Civil Rights?” 

Movie themed: “It Could Happen to You.” 

(Almost the title of a Judy Holliday movie about self-promotion, “It Should Happen to You.”)

~ * ~

Those savvier than I am may see the following coming, just like when the hospital goons jumped me.

Fox News Detroit dispatched a film crew and did a yellow journalism-style hatchet job on me. 

Big surprise: Fox News Detroit perniciously repeated the fabricated notion that I was crazy. 

I asked them not to film me because I was not wearing make-up, but the camera guy secretly filmed me laughing at the neighbor’s stink.

An editor stitched together a Frankenstein, sexist version of my story, which was broadcast on air and posted online.

The neighbor who can be seen whipping me the bird fought with my husband’s older brothers going back sixty years.

I am tempted to say something like this neighborhood was not a cluster of rocket scientists. Instead, the neighborhood was a cluster of factory rejects and retirees, fighting families, lecherous fathers, abused wives, barking dogs, mail order wives, mistreated girlfriends, gossips, Fox News watchers.

In the piece, Fox News Detroit now anchor, Taryn Asher, outright lied.

She said the Garbage City police were helping me.

She said I was crazy.

No neighbors asked questions about the meaning of my metaphoric civil rights protect.

No one made a distinction between words and actions.

When Chris was alive, we kept to ourselves.

Neighbors on either side had lived side by side for decades, pre-dating my husband’s birth, and he was dead.

Differences and tensions had long worn thin.

~ * ~

No one has been willing or able to help fix the problem of criminal mental abuse.

No one wants to acknowledge the problem exists.

Forgive me for not knowing what to do in this crazy situation to fix it. 

Rookie mistake on my part, I guess. 

I claim earnest artist’s prerogative. 

In rational situations, I act rationally. 

I am not crazy or dangerous. 

I have a right to fight for my liberty.

I have an obligation to fight to save my life.

~ * ~

I was helped by some area neighbors, strangers, who were very kind to me.

Money was raised to fix my car, get me the temporary appearance of car insurance and buy me a phone.

Wow.

Thank you, eternally, all kind strangers.

~ * ~

I had my own version of a sort of static small-scale Sugarland Express going on at 7016 Deering Street in Garden City, in September 2015.

(Another movie reference. Look it up. A cultural gem. From Steven Spielberg. And Goldie Hawn.)

Some people were simply generous and warm.

Others wanted something.

This woman wanted me to cover up “Jesus raped me.”

She wasn’t at all concerned with what may have happened to me.

She was only concerned with what she considered a conscious act of “blasphemy.”

Apart from lefty writer and Jesus freak, Anne Lamott, and Catholic writer, Andre Dubus, II, Jesus people too often drive me crazy.

“Take care & take back control of your life.”

Who does this stranger think she is, assuming I had done nothing to help myself?

And that I needed her anonymous Christian unconsciously sexist counseling?

“What would Jesus do?” she asks.

I think the poor guy would ask to be let down off the cross and have people leave him out of things.

Like the Livonia Police did not do when they abducted me February 22, 2013.

I never should have been taken to the Catholics.

Separation of church and state is critical.

~ * ~

One of the nice people who helped me escape town brought over a journalist from the local Garden City newspaper.

~ * ~

I wanted news coverage, I got news coverage, but I wanted better news coverage.

I wanted positive results.

~ * ~

Garden City Observer, Sunday September 13, 2015: “Fournier could not be reached for comment, but an online search showed that she is a former English teacher at Oakland Community College who used her home to lash out–

ACTIVE VERBS REVEAL BIAS

“against both OCC and her feelings about religious institutions she has dealt with.”

~ * ~

Spontaneous human combustion.

~ * ~

Sue Buck, the writer, revealed her bias through word choice and omission.

In a sexist world, women are reduced to feelings and not seen as full actors in the world.

~ * ~

Frustration.

Internalized as directed.

No one wants to hold the spot light on the crimes committed against me.

I was suicide swatted, abducted, hand cuffed, shackled, drugged, knocked out, held against need in Catholic Siberia with utmost cruelty, plus a long list of retaliatory negative action.

Redressing the government for equal protection is my right.

I am not the villain in this story.

The next week, Sue Buck interviewed me in person, which I appreciate.

Two articles were published by the Garden City Observer, two Sundays in a row.

The articles appeared in print editions of the local paper, owned by a chain called Hometown Newspapers.

The articles can be found online through Hometown Newspapers and the Detroit Free Press.

The second Sue Buck article was a considerable improvement over the first, which, again, I appreciate, but it still fell short.

Fell short of making clear my full claims.

Sue Buck did restate my claims about Land of Motown Community College suicide swatting me.

But she did not restate my claims about being held without evaluation in violation of the law at St. Mary Merciless.

Sue Buck, Hometown Newspapers: “Fournier is an ex-English teacher who worked at the Royal Oak OCC campus for seven years. She believes that her push for educational reform helped propel OCC in 2012 to start a paper trail that labels her ‘suddenly crazy and dangerous’.”

Yes.

“She added that her story is so long that many people would just say that she’s nuts. Fournier alleges false reports were made by OCC to the Livonia police. There’s one YouTube video that shows her being transported by Livonia police in 2013 to St. Mary Mercy Hospital Livonia.”

That’s not clear about the nature of the false reports made about me, that the school labeled me suicidal when I was not.

Sue Buck, Hometown Newspapers: “Livonia Public Information Officer Lt. Tom Goralski said there was no arrest after police came to Fournier’s house Feb. 22, 2013, before transporting her to the hospital.”

Sue Buck’s article came close to restating my critical claims about the Livonia Police and Livonia Catholics, but fell short.

“The police visit was initiated after an employee of Oakland County Community College contacted them about Fournier’s well-being because of what she had written on Facebook.”

Weak.

~ * ~

Recap. For readers who may not have braved this entire epic tale, which is understandable.

The Set Up. Terry McCauley, top cop for Land of Motown Community College, my two-time suicide swatter, the first time, was ordered by William MacQueen, interim human resources labor attorney, my nemesis, my Larry Nassar, on February 22, 2013, to make purposely false calls about me to the Livonia Police, in Livonia, where I was renting.

The school had been gaslighting me for nearly a year, to silence my critical voice, as the paper trail, the real compete paper trail, my paper trail, irrefutably makes clear.

I know that sounds unusual, and unusually cruel, but it’s true.

Rather than fire a small department of bullies, plagiarizers and teacher first union members, it was easier to target just me.

Yes.

My documentation beats theirs.

~ * ~

I was not suicidal. I was miserable. And sarcastic.

This is the Facebook post that caused my murder by suicide swatting and criminal mental abuse.

This post was purposely misused to set me up.

However.

Please note closely.

This later Facebook post SAVE MY LIFE could have been, should have been, is my thoughts on the matter that became at hand that horrible day.

I have never been suicidal in my life.

William MacQueen, my nemesis, slapped me with that label, which I have tried to officially shed ever since.

But this Facebook post was purposely NOT SHARED by my Land of Motown Community College suicide swatter with either the Livonia Police fuck the Bitch Squad or Catholic Siberia, given the timeline.

And the Catholics did not bother to listen to me.

I was human trafficked by St. Mary Merciless of Livonia, Michigan, for cash.

Given the timeline, by NOT sharing this Facebook post, my attackers made clear their criminal intent to set me up for chaos with the Livonia Police Fuck the Bitch Squad and Catholic Siberia, where Dr. Andrew Muzychka was not on sight.

We have never met.

The guy who locked me up?

We have never met.

~ * ~

Journalist Sue Buck: “She also references time spent at the Catholic hospital. ‘This is where the “Jesus Raped Me” comes from,’ Fournier said. ‘I was grossly violated.’ ”

I don’t know if I worked the multiple layers of quotation marks correctly above, but I know Sue Buck was not clear about my claims.

I was grossly violated!

I was locked up without evaluation.

The Catholics lied in order to human traffic my body for a week.

I have painstakingly re-created every step, every document, every phone call, every player.

But no one has cares but me.

Maybe that will finally change.

~ * ~

MLive, which covers the state of Michigan, got in on the action.

A male writer who did not bother to ask for an interview wrote: “According to Fournier’s Facebook profile, she taught English at Oakland Community College until 2013. The self-inflicted vandalism calls out religion and OCC. Fournier’s Facebook pages is a steady stream of lengthy posts in which she frequently references a ‘witch hunt’ and stints in mental wards where she was taken against her will.”

~ * ~

People dismiss the claims of a crone who says she was locked up illegally in a mental ward.

It is so unimportant to protect a female like me from criminal mental abuse, MLive casually and inaccurately referred to “stints,” multiple “stints in mental wards where she was taken against her will.”

Which did not happen.

Like the writer felt I probably deserved all I got.

Like the writer, if pressed to guess, would side with the mob.

She’s crazy! Lock her up!

~ * ~

MLive photographer Tanya Moutzalias took some good shots.

~ *~

I’m so tired of recalling this chain of events. 

And not getting the kind of response I need.

~ * ~

I don’t have the luxury of a pr firm, representation by the ACLU, or my own money to fight the loose coalition of power that stands against me.

~ * ~

Recalling this chain of events and trying to set the record straight must be done despite the additional pain and danger it causes.

It must be done because the most important thing to me is to tell my story and make my story known about the horrors and perils of modern mental health care.  

~ * ~

My story fits into the larger picture, I know, not much, but enough at this point. 

Wikipedia just informed me that Ten Days in a Mad-House is the name of the book by American journalist Nellie Bly, initially published as a series of articles for the New York World.  She went undercover on purpose to write an expose.  Bly later compiled the articles into a book, published in 1887.

I have not read Nellie Bly, but I will, especially if I sign a contract to write a memoir. 

I just found a copy online and skimmed the beginning to find this assertion:

“From the moment I entered the insane ward on the Island, I made no attempt to keep up the assumed role of insanity. I talked and acted just as I do in ordinary life. Yet strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted the crazier I was thought to be by all except one physician, whose kindness and gentle ways I shall not soon forget.”

~ * ~

Like I said, they call it the looney bin after the wardens, not the inmates.

~ * ~

No, I am not lying in order to write a book. 

No, I am not lying in order to write a book and make a lot of money. 

The idea that authors make a lot of money is a fantasy. 

I spoke out about what I called a reading crisis as reading teacher. 

The publishing industry is not the banking industry.

~ * ~

It feels like I am actually pulling heavy rope attached to an anchor mired deep at the bottom of the sea, one I have never seen. 

I’ll never see it, but need to keep pulling. 

There is so much more to say and spoiler: no good ending. 

There’s no ending at all.

Chapter: Bill Schuette Followed Me Up North and Sent the Michigan State Police to Label Me Mentally Ill

What was that you were saying about JAIL?

As I feared, because of the powerful forces lining up against me, police eventually came for me, again. 

First to harass me, then to take me away.

To jail.

~ * ~

Recap.

Big picture. Established in this telling at the start. To prepare readers for a fabulous tale.

State of Michigan attorney general Bill Schuette came a knockin’ via the Michigan State Police soon after I arrived up north after foreclosure downstate.

~ * ~

No one will believe me.  That’s the curse of bogus mental health care.  Thank god for cellphone cameras. Thank god for cellphone cameras and the strangers who give them.

~ * ~

About a month after I escaped to the cabin after foreclosure down state, the state of Michigan attorney general, and there is only one, not only declined to review the license of the doctor or the hospital—even though the hospital admitted in writing to breaking the law on behalf of all patients—the state attorney general–and there is only one per state–began targeting me and retaliating against me. 

Anyone can easily find the November 2015 video I shot nervously and posted to Youtube years ago.  I suggest watching it instead of taking my word. Two Michigan State police officers come to my cabin door after dark.  They clearly name the attorney general and asked if I plan to kill him. 

I have evidence, video evidence and through FOIA, the police report, or else I, in my position, would never tell such a tale.

~ * ~

Apparently, on October 1, 2015, before I was run out of Garden city, I wrote on Facebook: “Looking for a contract killer.”

And then moved on.

~ * ~

Watch the video.

I name the doctor who did not evaluate me at St. Mary Merciless, Andrew Muzychka, but I did not spell his name.

Yet, the name of the male doctor who signed bogus clinical certificate #1, which was sent to Wayne County Probate court by the Livonia Catholics, appears spelled correctly at the top of this cover letter.

The cover letter included the police report I requested through the Freedom of Information Access (FOIA).

It’s almost impossible to spell the guy’s name correctly when you see it spelled (when you think a perpetual penis torturing machine should be constructed in his honor, especially).

Spelling his name correctly without knowing the situation beyond what transpired?

I named the guy when the police showed up, but I did not spell his name for the cops, who were not taking notes as they harassed me.

~ * ~

Who sent the cops?

Bill Schuette? Rich Cunningham?

Who originated the order?

Someone did.

The order to harass me did not originate in Mt. Pleasant with D/F/Lt. Anderson.

Bill Schuette, how did you know I had moved from Garden City to Lake Miramichi?

My name was not on the tax bills, or any bills for the address.

~ * ~

Michigan Department of State Police Original Incident Report. Thu, Nov 19, 2015. Written by D/Sergeant Todd Parsons.

“D/F/Lt. Anderson requested I conduct an investigation into possible threats made by Gina Fournier. D/F/Lt. Anderson forwarded me several Facebook posts from her. Of concern was a post that stated, “Looking for a contract killer.” Due to the fact that Gina frequently posts rants about Attorney General Bill Schuette there was concern she may be planning to harm him.”

What the Michigan State Police dismiss as “rants,” I call redressing the government for lack of equal protection.

I call my social media accounts diary and documentation of criminal mental abuse.

“Rants” reveals sexist bias, and an assumption based on my appearance as a female that any claims I may have are automatically unreasonable.”

~ * ~

“At 1750 pm 11-19-15 Sgt. Naylor and I made contact with Gina at the above listed address, (it should be noted this is a cottage on Lake Miramichi).”

Why should it be noted I like in a “cottage on Lake Miramichi”?

Plan on returning?

Sending reinforcements?

Setting me up with a bogus ppo and stalking charge for a Land of Motown Community College cop with a second home across the street?

The extra notation about my address sounds like possible confirmation of a larger set up, stretching beyond the Land of Motown Community College original wish to end my career.

~ * ~

If the un-stated message was for me to shut up, I was deaf.

~ * ~

“Upon making contact with Gina she immediately became agitated.”

Who wouldn’t be agitated?

“She would not speak with us until she retrieved her cell phone to record our conversation. Sgt. Naylor asked her about the post while showing her a printed copy.”

NO. INACCURACY. I WAS SHOWN NOTHING. WATCH THE VIDEO.

~ * ~

“She stated she did not intend to harm anyone that we were taking it out of context. She stated the comment was sarcasm. I asked her specifically if she intended to hired a contract killer and she stated she did not.”

Which would be clear to any observer, and was clear, on October 1, 2015, when I said jokingly, “looking for a contract killer” on Facebook, my last days in Garden City.

Six weeks later, November 19, 2015, the Michigan State Police showed me nothing, no Facebook post.

I had no idea what they were talking about.

I’d forgotten my throw-away joke.

~ * ~
It is NOT okay for the Michigan State Police to gaslight me with intent to silence me, or set me up for bogus criminal prosecution.

~ * ~

I know. 

This is too much. 

I know!

~ * ~

Why did the attorney general of the state of Michigan begin targeting me soon after I tried to hide? 

Because I kept asking for justice for the crimes of suicide swatting, unnecessary police abduction, perjury in official court documents, and violations of the state law regarding involuntary detainment.

Because I would not shut up.

~ * ~

And because, I forgot: the Garden City Police gave me an idea: to taunt WITH A PURPOSE, to redress the government on Facebook for not prosecuting my criminal attackers, for ignoring the crimes committed against me.

I taunted with a purpose to redress the attorney general of Michigan, who declined to extend to me equal protection for the crimes committed against me by Land of Motown Community College, Livonia Police and St. Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward.

Facebook Memories helped me remember.

~ * ~

Facebook. 7.5.2015. “Come and get me, assholes. I have little left to loose. It may be my only chance, dim as it is, for a lawyer, press and justice. May god shoot Bill Schuette AG of Michigan in the fucking balls and brain. Catholic God of Livonia, hear my fucking prayer, Oakland Community College witch hunt. Making a point about the First Amendment, the Catholic Church and unchecked white collar criminals. Testing.”

Facebook. 7.15.2015. “Not that its any of your business, but I am trying to save my life, so I will say I am bleeding again, one month before homelessness and my 52 birthday.”

~ * ~

For years, I talked about my menstrual period and the difficulty of purchasing supplies when poor, part of my totally honesty plan.

Be honest. Earn justice.

How naive.

~ * ~

An August 11, 2015 date of being evicted and foreclosed loomed, terrifying me.

My name was not on the mortgage in Garden City.

I was going to put the house in my name when I was suicide swatted the first time and thrown off my course.

Illegal unnecessary looney bin lock up on top of the death of my husband greatly overwhelmed me, in addition to Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witch hunt.

I was too busy with important paperwork of too many kinds.

~ * ~

I was trying to see if they would arrest me and maybe open a pathway to a pro bono lawyer from ACLU.

Swear to god.

That’s how much this particular onslaught of criminal mental abuse and torture hurts, how much I want it to stop.

Facebook. July 15, 2015. “I was never evaluated, motherfucker Bill Schuette, may Catholic god of the Livonia Felician Nuns rape you raw, too.”

~ * ~

I’m not proud.

I’m in pain.

Mental abuse hurts.

It causes widespread damage.

~ * ~

I deserve equal protection for the crimes committed against me: suicide swatting, police abduction and perjury, many violations of the law of illegal detainment in a mental ward.

~ * ~

I guess Bill Schuette did have the balls to police harass me.

However, these posts were NOT included with Michigan State Police FOIA response regarding November 19, 2015, when I was asked about
Killing Bill! and falsely labeled mentally ill in the 911 system.

That omission speaks volumes.

The names of my attackers were protected by AG Bill Schuette and the Michigan State Police.

~ * ~

Facebook. July 15, 2015. On the same day I taunted Bill Schuette:. “How will it go August 11, when I am made homeless finally by the Land of Motown Community College witch hunt? Will the police come looking for me? Will the police take Hunter the dog and Louie the bird to the human center? Where will they take me, if anywhere? There are no homeless shelters in the area.”

~ * ~

Why so angry? Read my entire story. Or take my word for it. My anger is reasonable.

Still needs to be transmuted, but it’s earned.

I do think some idiot could read this and start shooting, which is not my intention.

But I don’t own a gun.

Disclaimer: All violence metaphoric and emotional, psychological and result of mental abuse and torture. This writer does not condone violence. This writer needs justice and mercy.

~ * ~

Yes, that’s how much criminal mental health care hurts.

“Jesus raped me” did not work, but my problems and protest remain.

I was willing to take on the state attorney general head on in the courage-less ring of social media.

Yes, that’s how much mind rape by employer, co-worker, hometown, police, religion, state hurts.

That’s how desperate I was to end the pain and stop the destruction.

~ * ~

Problem for me? 

The state attorney general’s lifelong wish was to become governor. 

Remember what I said about Land of Motown Community College’s location among the richest of the rich?

~ * ~ 

C’mon. No one will side with you. 

Your story is too long, too crazy, and you have “fuzzy” un-kept hair (a description used against me more than once). 

You swear at cops.

Now for sure the reader must wonder whether you are “grandiose” and dangerous crazy. 

You go too far.

You aren’t important enough.

You aren’t worthy enough.

You aren’t good enough.

~ * ~

Dear former students, I was wrong and be careful. 

Evidence does not help.

Documentation ignored can hurt your body, break your heart, empty your wallet and drive you mad. 

And you can’t control the message anyway, true or fake news, but you already knew that.

Maybe that’s why some of you didn’t bother.

~ * ~

The one and only state attorney general’s visit, his state police messengers, opened the doors to many more interludes with officials. 

Eventually, this unwanted attention was initiated by unnamed mysterious action. 

And that’s a big problem. 

This paper trail could swallow me up for a long time locked away somewhere, just like Camille Claudel.

I’ve got no defense or protection.

~ * ~

I think there is enough evidence to suggest a larger set up at work.

Tactically, I need justice for the mental health crimes committed against me in order to protect my liberty, my civil status, my guardianship, my life.

Chapter: Motherfucked (“Psychiatric Victim”) Because I’m Not a Mother

I don’t have any children. 

I was targeted by my nemesis at land of Motown Community College for many reasons, my big mouth, and because my husband was sick, and I don’t have any children. 

I don’t have any children by choice because of my Catholic upbringing and the damage it has done to the female family line that created me.  

And my sick husband freaked out and died years ago, in 2012, in the first year of the attack.

~ * ~

I escaped the Catholics, but they recaptured me. 

Can you imagine my horror?

~ * ~

I don’t have any adult children to defend me against the crimes committed against me at St. Mary Merciless.

~ * ~

About the movie Thelma & Louise. 

I said the film’s reception was nutz, not the film. 

Same goes double for me. 

I’m not crazy! 

I’m caught in a crazy story. 

~ * ~

I’m trapped by attack in a downward cycle of criminal mental health care, but on good days, in good moments, I’m still trying to escape, still pulling up toward the light after every shove and fall back into the darkness of despair, which have happened regularly. 

Despair caused by rotten mental health care.

Lose, rebuild, over and over.

Escape up north, attorney general sends state cops, fall apart, rebuild.  

Sun rises, night rises, sun rises, night rises. 

There is no bi-polar. 

People hurt other people, who hurt other people, who hurt other people.

 ~ * ~

When angry, because I have seen so much indolence and indifference, I would wish any woman–all women–in America instead of me suffer as I have. 

Lock up all the bitches, not just me!

~ * ~

Uneven playing field on top of uneven playing field.

It’s too much mind fuck and pain for one person.

~ * ~

Am I the only Ladywood graduate to be locked up inside Catholic Siberia?

Without justice, I can’t live with the distinction.

Not me.

Any of the others, but not me!

No!

~ * ~

The nuns know.

I contacted them, a Sr. Nancy called me back, we spoke a few times, but she said her superiors denied me mercy.

She said she’d pray for me.

She said she hoped I’d get over my anger.

What a fucking bitch, hiding behind nonsense Jesus.

~ * ~

I give in to hate, it feels like, ideally just a little, or maybe a little too much, in order to survive, to build a strong protective seed coat or armor. 

When burning on fire and being cut to shreds, in pain, figuratively, it feels everyone in American is taunting me: ‘Better you than us.’ 

And people who know are saying in effect just that.

It’s true.

~ * ~

People know. 

People do not care to help. 

~ * ~

I have informed government, press, church, family and the world formally and on social media nonstop from the start. 

Formally, informally, metaphorically, with pen, with paintbrush, with tears.

~ * ~

I’ve amassed boxes of documentation. 

~ * ~

People are watching. 

Trolls taunt. 

It’s all too much. 

It’s been too much for a long time. 

It’s okay to say, but saying does not help.

~ * ~

There is no bi polar. 

On top of that, the first doctor who labeled me definitely bi polar never met me.  

The others, at St. Mary Merciless, just copied the first. 

There is no scientific basis for this label, bi-polar, but this label can kill.

~ * ~

Catholics are fucking nutz, not me.

Virgin birth.

It’s too much.

~ * ~

There are too many layers of hell to this story.

~ * ~

I often feel panic at the sheer enormous and still growing size of the story rolling over me. 

It’s too late! 

I’ll never win! 

Then time passes, the story is even bigger, but still moving over me. 

Is any good ending possible?

~ * ~

When I get to this part of the story, the set up for my trip to jail, I really want to give up, which is of course what my attackers would like.

~ * ~

My latest prayer, battling against hate for hate, begins to accept my fate, but still begrudgingly.

I was put here in this hell story for some reason.

~ * ~

There is little to no legal framework or culture established, apparently, for clearing one’s name from bogus criminal mental health care indictments. 

The stigma of lock her up! does not wash off. 

~ * ~

Maybe I can help make the world a better place in this regard.

Like others who suffer and heal through helping, sign me up!

But do it quickly!

Please.

Chapter: Lying Cops Turn Suicide Gaslighting into Criminal Gaslighting

I’ve heard NPR and read newspaper reports saying the mentally ill are more likely to become the victims of crime. 

But what about the victim of criminal mental abuse, mislabeled crazy, in an uncaring disjointed System? 

Same thing, apparently.

~ * ~

Jail!!! 

I hate to admit it. 

I’m innocent. 

I know.

That’s what they all say.

I’m not crazy, dangerous or suicidal. 

I was set up repeatedly!

I am the victim of crime, not the perpetrator.

~ * ~

And here comes Gina again, to prove that the Lying Cops, a husband and wife team, were after me, not the other way around.

Just like I was bullied at Land of Motown Community College by long time established bullies in the union, protected by the union, not the other way around.

~ * ~ 

In Osceola County, near the Mecosta county line, eight miles from Evart, eighteen miles from Reed city, twenty five miles from Big Rapids, Michigan.

They nabbed me for a bogus personal protection order, then a bogus felony charge of stalking. 

At no time were my civil rights protest signs mentioned by Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2, the Michigan State Police, or the Osceola County prosecuting attorney.

I believe this omission speaks volumes.

~ * ~

Stalking a cop.

Who stalks a cop?

Of all the people I may have targeted to stalk, why this guy? 

A cop who worked for (who may still work for) Land of Motown Community College. 

Meaning a cop who worked for my two-time suicide swatter, a crooked cop.

~ * ~

Would someone please pay attention to the network of criminals surrounding me?

~ * ~

They nabbed me for stalking a cop who I never met before meeting him (if that’s what you call it) in court.

~ * ~

If I were reading, I would maybe feel a responsibility to doubt the narrator, if I have not already begun to feel distrust, maybe even disgust.

~ * ~ 

I never met the guy, the cop, who I supposedly criminally annoyed, harassed and stalked, just like I never met the guy who locked me up at St. Mary Merciless. 

No, I am not crazy or lying. 

I’ve got proof I was set up coming from the cop’s own mouth, under oath. 

I hope someone believes me. 

I hope someone in authority looks at all this proof, mixed with my narration.

~ * ~ 

No one stalks a cop. 

I did not stalk a cop, or anyone.

Of all the characters in my story, why in the world would I care about this pompous asshole, Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2, who injected himself into my story?

~ * ~

The label “proud crooked cop” refers to too many too uniformly white male cops I’ve been forced to encounter.

My painting was inspired by a sign on the neighbor’s house.

That sign was taken down after I was sent letters from the Lake Miramchi home owners association about my civil protest signs, which I ignored.

I felt my need to redress the government trumped any sign restrictions.

~ * ~

At the same time, I received anonymous harassing notes from a neighbor about Hunter my dog being off leash.

Coincidence.

I think it was the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2’s wife, who lied in court under oath.

Both husband and wife tripped over their fabricated story.

While the wife was up north the first week of April 2017, noticeable when otherwise no one is around, I received two letters, one an anonymous harassing card about Hunter and the other from the neighborhood association about my signs.

I think the wife of Land of Motown Community College Lying co #2 sent them both.

I think the Lying Cops were after me, not the other way around.

I know it wasn’t the other way around.

The list of paired terms short of clear concepts oozes disturbed guilty wife of disturbed guilty cop.

Or something mentally socially ill.

One set of protest signs urged onlookers to ask questions about the Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witch hunt.

The idea was to encourage questions about why I was saying things like “jail” my attackers and “Jesus raped me.”

~ * ~

I had only recently heard of the existence of Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 from another neighbor, who wasn’t sure if they guy worked at a community college or Land of Motown University. Both exist, which is confusing to anyone not living in Oakland County.

If I were crazy criminal and going to stalk someone, why wouldn’t I pick one of my attackers?

~ * ~

Chapter: Police Harassment: Suicide Gaslighting and Hostile So Called Welfare Checks

Well, reader, I know you want the juicy jail details more than anything else I have to say, but before the locals jailed me in remote mid-Michigan, right in the middle of the Mitten, first I was terrorized.

Progressively.

~ * ~

Cops up north circled, hounded, pounced repeatedly, terrorized me up north, progressively getting closer between November 19, 2015, when Bill Schuette sent the Michigan State Police to ask me if I planned on Killing Bill! based on sarcasm that did not even name him (or anyone) and August 25, 2017, when I was arrested for supposedly violating the bogus ppo.

They showed up again on time after JAIL, up north, with DHHS, just to make the ruse look better.

~ * ~

The cops circled and eventually pounced much like when a German Shepherd dog progressively terrorized then bit me as a teenager. 

~ * ~

The Story of the German Shepherd That Bit My Butt While I Delivered The Detroit Free Press in the Early Morning Before Ladywood High School.

Circa 1980.

I delivered the Detroit Free Press newspaper early mornings before high school in order to dance after school. 

Yes, that school, my all girl Catholic high school, Ladywood High School, now defunct, which taunted me while I was housed in the nearby looney bin. 

I knew that dog wanted a piece of my juicy bum.  And I was right.  It terrorized me for months, creeping closer to watch me deliver the newspaper. 

First, it stood inside the house, door closed, barking.

Then it was summer.

Then the door was open.

Step by step he, I assume it was a he but did not check!

The dog moved closer.

The screen door stood between us.

The screen door was unlocked.

The dog stuck his angry mouth and showed his teeth through the open door.

I think I started throwing the newspaper at the porch.

I must have.

Next, the dog stood outside the house waiting and watching. 

One day, but not the first day it could, it did the only left to do. 

That dog jumped up and bit one of my buttocks while I was trying to pedal away on my bike.

I had asked the owners to restrain the dog, but they did not listen.

I knew that dog was going to bite my butt, and it did.

I could not stop it.

It’s alright to laugh. 

The image makes me smirk a bit, too.

~ * ~

Similarly, more recently, as an adult, keening toward old age, I kept telling social media, I’m in danger! 

I kept telling state officials, I’m in danger! 

And I was right. 

I was also a huge target without protection.

~ * ~

I will now attempt to compile a list of dates for the police harassment and bogus welfare checks I’ve endured after Land of Motown Community College’s February 22, 2013 and June 9, 2014 purposeful deliberate criminal acts, suicide swatting me.

Extremely painful writing work, my job, trying and failing to save my life.

List of police harassment including Bill Schuette’s Michigan State Police harassment and bogus criminal investigation of me possibly planning to Kill Bill! Nov 19, 2015, which was used to mislabel me mentally ill in the 911 system.

Years ago, still at Lake Miramichi, I stopped counting at 30 cops overall, beginning with February 22, 2013, which started the count at five.

Cops, mostly males, showing up to poke me: Are you suicidal? Are you suicidal? Are you suicidal?

Even though I keep saying NO!!!!

STOP SUICIDE GASLIGHTING!

YEARS AGO!

STOP NOW!

ACKNOWLEDGE THE DAMAGE DONE PUBLICLY.

PLEASE.

THANK YOU.

The lack of coordination between police agencies involving the Michigan State Police and overlapping the offices of the governor and the attorney general equal harassment. My claims have been silenced, and I have been maligned, abused, gaslit.

That’s harassment.

And discrimination.

~ * ~

Complete list of police harassment to the best of my ability:

Livonia, Michigan:

February 22, 2013 Terry McCauley ordered by William MacQueen to suicide swat. Livonia Michigan.

June 9, 2014 Terry McCauley ordered by William MacQueen to suicide swat. Garden City, Michigan.

Evart, Michigan:

November 2014 Chief Bob Meury Garden City Police sent by Oakland Community College. False claims of liking my writing on Facebook. Garden City, Michigan.

April 25, 2015 Rodney Fournier, estranged brother, and no doubt estranged (and very disturbed and disturbing) Catholic mother, Eugenia Grzywacz, requested welfare check instead of calling directly or sending food. My hungriest (and thinnest) point in the attack. Garden City, Michigan.

Up north:

November 19, 2015 Bill Schuette sent Michigan State Police Todd Parsons and Norma Naylor false claim of plotting to Kill bill! used to mislabel me mentally ill in 911 system. Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan.

I endured since Bill Schuette got involved by name:

January 5, 2016 Michigan State Police Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan, unneeded unwanted welfare check.

I hate this story. I hate what this story has done to my life.

This one was called in by by that idiot broad from Garden City, whom I think of homemade cheesecake with raspberry sauce on the side. (I’ll edit.) (Maybe.)

She come to my home to check on me nightly, after Jesus Raped Me.

I told her not to, but she kept doing it anyway and leaving food.

So I stopped answering the door, ignored her, hid inside my own home and let her leave food.

She said her husband tried to set her on fire.

She said she knew Bill Schuette and tried to call him on my behalf.

She had a business making funeral clothes for dead babies.

We were not in the same tribe.

She didn’t get me at all, so her efforts though perhaps kindly intended missed the mark.

(add foia for Jan 5, 2016)

June 3, 2016 Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan, two Mecosta County Cop cars.

(requested FOIA Mecosta County July 22, 2019 see Twitter)

Two Mecosta county cops showed up after I was at the library, I think it was, like they practically followed me home from library, where, as always, if I posted, I posted nuanced cries for justice regarding the Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witch hunt.

I did not realize that such a heavy pattern of harassment was beginning.

But I felt it.

I know that harassment of all kinds started piling up and running over me.

In this series of two videos, two Mecosta County cop cars are parked in the street partially blocking my driveway.

I stop filming the first video because I wanted to draw my dog, Hunter, out of the street and back into the house.

Near the end of the second video, one of the cops, sitting inside his cop car, asks me from the street if I’m ok, so it’s hard to hear.

To which I respond with an angry demand that Bill Schuette do his job.

Two cop cars are seen leaving.

https://youtu.be/gIMJpm_x1wM

~ * ~

My guess about who called?

Well, maybe a woman named Claudean.

Longtime followers may recall Claudean.

It turns out, I discovered months and months later, that a few houses down, which meant up and down a hill and around a bend, some guy’s girlfriend, Claudean, may have called the cops.

She mentioned quickly under her breath much later, when I finally tracked her down in the flesh, that she may have called the cops at one point.

I was squeezing her for a ride to the library after I lost my car.

She was feeling guilty and bought me fast food, too.

We never spoke again, though I would see her on occasion driving a gold cart around.

We ignored each other for another year or so until I was run out of the bi-county area.

I have been a magnet to a few characters who have used me as a sounding board for their own stories.

Claudean put a card in my mailbox with a friendship ring inside.

Yes, of course I have pictures, real pictures of the real event.

This woman, a complete stranger, from Kentucky, thought a friendship ring from a stranger, an unidentified stranger, might be comfort to me.

When I finally solved the mystery, I was pissed off.

My thought was, “Why doesn’t the state of Michigan lock up these idiot broads in the Catholic’s god damn nut house instead of me?”

When I finally tracked Claudean down seasons later, she told me about her abusive ex husband, her abusive ex boss and her abusive ex neighbor who killed dog.

Abusers all male, but you may have assumed that detail.

~ * ~

June 6, 2016 Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan, one Mecosta County cop car.

There is no cop body in this video either.

I had a camera malfunction.

Based on the time stamp on my up north laptop (looks like a Mad Max character at this point, one beat up computer, from all angles), the cop had harassed me at my door at 7:30 am on a Monday morning.

Who called the cops and asked them to harass me first thing Monday morning?

(foia requested Mecosta County July 22, 2019)

Harassed over suicide.

Suicide gaslight.

And it’s still happening almost three years later.

My claims as a victim of crime ignored.

At the end of this video, I called a white male police officer a white male pig repeatedly after he harassed me about suicide, but not to his face.

He wouldn’t leave the drive way. He was hovering in his cop car.

He was part of a too long chain of police harassment.

I’m sorry.

I wish things were different.

I am only human.

Clearly, I did not feel cared for by his unwanted visit.

Long time followers know I have requested restorative justice for years.

https://youtu.be/pyB_UnstfUg

~ * ~

My guess about who may have called regarding the June 6, 2016 early Monday morning hit?

Marty Froman, the DHHS agent who began showing up, again uninvited, in April 2016.

Refused to tell me who sent him.

Can you imagine?

I just FOIAed the Department of Health and Human Services. July 22, 2019.

Back to police harassment.

Labor Day weekend 2016 Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan. combo attack: Mecosta County and Michigan State Police.

Michigan State Police one cop and Mecosta County two cops.

I did not give this Mecosta County cop much time at my door.

This guy’s face is starting to look familiar to me, and I don’t like it.

There is nothing caring about his facial expression, demeanor or action.

I’m biased, but I see a smirk, a grimace, fear, ignorance, like he’d rather be elsewhere.

No warrant? Leave.

Do not keep asking me about suicide.

I named Bill Schuette in the first video of two videos taken on this date.

The cops were staking my house from the street in the second video.

Showing off for the Lying cops across the street?

The cops positioned themselves in view.

Of the Lying Cops’ compound.

Cops told told me a neighbor called.

Cops harassed me with questions of suicide.

Cops were used to rape my mind and it is not ok.

There should be greater positive coordination.

(requested foia July 21, 2019 from Mecosta county and Michigan State Police)

When I asked her directly, Lying Cop’s wife said no they did not call Labor Day weekend 2016.

She was a bitch on wheels and acted like she was lying.

Actually, she was standing on her balcony.

Very snottily, she said I should go down to the shore on their property to ask her husband, which I knew was a bad idea, and did not do.

I need to be clear: this woman was purposely a cunt bitch to me when I asked from the road if anyone from her compound called the cop to request a welfare check.

I don’t recall me crying.

I recall the cunt bitch.

I had not started painting civil rights signs but this interlude gave me the idea.

After the police harassed me, I spoke to her from the road.

She remained on her balcony.

Later, in court, land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 said they did call.

There’s a lot of telling talk on the ppo transcripts.

Hope someone one day looks at them besides me.

Back to police harassment list.

~ * ~

January 20, 2017. City and County cops outside Evart Library, Evart, Michigan.

I was standing there waiting for a MOTA bus minding my own business.

I was sad, but that isn’t a fucking crime.

Or sign of imminent suicide.

Or indication of need for white male sexist police to harass.

Librarians said it wasn’t them who called the police, and I believe them.

Of course I had posted about my need for justice and mercy from suicide gaslighting and the Land of Motown community college attack.

Have foia.

No named caller.

The day the worst president in United States was sworn into office.

What an unpleasant coincidence.

(ADD FOIA)

~ * ~

June 20, 2017. I left the Evart library, walked to Foster’s Grocery store, where Michigan State Police accosted me.

Little Norma Naylor returned.

She had harassed me November 19, 2015, over the Kill Bill! nonsense used to mislabel me mentally ill in the 911 system, which was used against me regularly.

At the end of this video, for my own ears and to blow steam I curse out the cops.

Who was watching my Facebook page?

Bill Schuette? Rich Cunningham still in office?

Who?

Who ordered this hit?

I have FOIA.

No suicide swatter named.

This harassment occurred after the bogus ppo, but before the bogus arrest associated with Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2.

With restorative justice, I can heal and stop needing to curse.

(ADD FOIA)

~ * ~

Last Lake Miramichi police harassment.

After the bogus ppo and after JAIL.

To complete this list of police harassment.

February 22, 2018. Lake Miramichi, Evart, Michigan.

Please note: that date is the five-year anniversary of my illegal lock up in the Catholic nut house due to suicide swatting by Land of Motown Community College.

There is no chance the date is a coincidence.

Because this harassment was 100% contrived.

And, yes, of course I’ve got the documentation to back my claims.

~ * ~

This harassment was the result of the combined efforts of Mecosta County and the Department of Health and Human Services.

Over time, DHHS agent Kristy Barron actually harassed me by visiting multiple times promising help she never delivered.

She even managed to visit me in jail, informed by the back channel communication that was strangling me, to inform me that she would not help me if I did not get out of jail.

The February 22, 2018 police harassment visit in which she participated is the culmination of that harassment, which will need its own chapter.

~ * ~

No one wishes this story were shorter more than me.

But it isn’t.

~ * ~

Mecosta County ON PAPER had the nerve to say this event did not happen.

Well, they said they had no record of it happening.

But it did.

I took video footage.

I got paperwork from 911 dispatch before Mecosta County could close down my FOIA access.

The Mecosta County prosecutor made the call.

Who called the Mecosta County prosecutor?

Bill Schuette?

Someone from his office?

~ * ~

Truth.

A lot to deal with, carry around in files and load.

~ * ~

Like an hour before the false front arrived, I tweeted the Governor Rick Snyder and Attorney General Bill Schuette, which I screenshot, then kept in a computer cubbey hole, I’m sure.

Watch these public servants act like shriveling worms. It’s incredible. Tax dollars at work.

The visit is a total ruse. I did not call about stolen protest signs, I had not been crying, I was not suicidal because I have never been suicidal.

DHHS Kristi Barron and the Mecosta County cop slunk away.

(add foia)

~ * ~

The next police action was August 25, 2017, when Little Norma Naylor came to arrest me on the bogus stalking charge.

I don’t think I violated the bogus ppo thanks to Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2, but the locals were not interested in fairness, or my civil rights, or my health, not in any way.

To be thorough, since leaving Lake Miramichci, cops have come to Bay City, where I live in close quarters in a row of duplexes. The first time on August 30, 2018, my birthday, I was crying. My land lady called, I think. Cops came again March 17, 2019; the neighbors called. Crying. Cops came again April 3, 2019. I wasn’t crying at all. I’ve got a bunch of FOIA requests out. I don’t recall where that one is at. Something about the neighbors supposedly called because I wasn’t crying and because of my Facebook. How do the neighbors who called in Bay City know my name?

Chapter: Ripe for Retaliation: Poverty’s Flush

Overtime, while initially living my Jeremiah Johnson/ Little House on the Prairie existence, I was stripped of my main lifeblood possessions. 

I was pulled over for driving with a loud muffler on my way back from a food pantry.  My car was towed. I was left to walk home country miles and abandon my food pantry food.  I lost my car. 

In other words, I ran out of money.  A car is a person’s main possession.  Driving like a poor person without paperwork earned me the first of two misdemeanors, and cost a lot. 

No money, no phone, no car to drive to the library eight miles away.  Yet, I needed to defend myself against a nonstop flow of attack via unneeded police welfare checks.

~ * ~ 

New house, new supply of wooden board on which to paint more signs as an outlet to my desperation.  To control cabin fever.

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

~ * ~

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

~ * ~

Years ago now, I stopped counting at 30 additional cops sent my way to harass me on unneeded welfare checks.  I’d guess the count is near 50 by now.

Coordinated effort to help me as a victim of suicide swatting, criminal mental health care and human trafficking would have been welcome.  Would still be welcome. 

Is needed.

~ * ~

Some unwelcome police welfare checks found me at the cabin.  Others located me at the grocery store or outside of the library, in the small town of Evart, eight miles away from the cabin, that looks like something dusty out of the past, which is what it is.

~ * ~ 

But more than just police harassed me up north.

By county officials, I was hassled about the cabin’s plumbing.  I carried water buckets and used a neighbor’s winterized well.  Pouring industrialized buckets of water down the toilet activated the gravity flush.  The local real estate agent had the septic tank emptied.  I scrapped together payments to Consumers Energy with help from Mid Michigan Community Action, a charity provider.  I warmed water on the stove to wash. 

~ * ~

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 and left a note on my door. 

Four months later, in June, he returned with county cops. 

The cabin was condemned. 

I removed the condemned sign immediately, though I still have it. 

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

~ * ~

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.  But I’ve got the 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.

~ * ~ 

Everything had become a fight, and the fight widened over time.

~ * ~

FOIA results stopped naming suicide swatters.  I suspect back channel collusion was encouraged, for good reasons.  My own paper trail has grown very big as well, meaning I am managing a lot of data.  In boxes, on jump drives, on computers, in closets, on cameras, in my besieged mind.

~ * ~   

Local county social workers from the state department of health and human services hassled me with surprise home visits.  Supposedly, the purpose was to help me fix my plumbing, which the state health and human department never did do. 

The second of two local county social workers even showed up to hover over me while I was incarcerated. 

How did show know? She would not say. 

~ * ~

I attended a special hearing to fight the health department, but lost, in a game that was stacked, rigged, fixed from the start. 

I lived in the condemned cabin hauling wood and water until the day I was arrested for attempted stalking the mysterious cop two weeks later.  

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

~ * ~

I got out of jail and lived in the cabin for almost another year, in figurative tether, either out of jail on bond or on probation.

~ * ~

You haven’t discussed jail yet.  Your building a case for your own innocence.  You hope people believe you.

~ * ~
Chapter: Ripe for Retaliation: No One Stalks a Cop! Personal Protection Order Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2

Chapter: To The Big House

move to jail? They took me away, again.  The second time, to jail. Which is humiliating to admit. Upon review, I think maybe this was a plan cooking on the stove for some time.

No one stalks a cop.

~ * ~

The point seemed to be striking me personally as a target, not public health or even community safety. 

There is one road around Lake Miramichi.  The state police did not question any other households.  If I stood in the road and screamed at the cop’s house for hours every weekend, other residents with second homes would have noticed.  Regularly, people circled the lake on ATVS, in gold carts and walking dogs.

~ * ~

Jail crept up and sprung itself on me just like the looney bin.

I must be a pretty big idiot.

Again, I was set up in a series of steps, first a bogus personal protection order, then a bogus stalking charge.

And I did not recognize the mechanism at play the second time around either, but I sure felt it.

~ * ~

One cold April day, in 2017, I was gathering wood with my dog using a wheelbarrow.  I noticed the odd neighbor woman taking pictures of me through her front window.  I wiped her the bird.  That picture was accepted as evidence that I stalked a cop.

~ * ~

By this point a neighbor I knew told me that a cop from either Land of Motown University OR Land of Motown Community college lived kitty corner across the street. 

I wondered if they made calls to the police about my crying.

~ * ~ 

The Michigan State police showed up after I whipped the bird.  They parked in the neighbor’s driveway.  I watched from my driveway, where I was building my second civil rights display of painted signs.  I wanted to talk to the police, too. 

A female and male cop seemed to go inside and come out quickly, and get back inside their cruiser.  Oddly, the wife followed them out and after they got in the cruiser acted very chummy and leaned into to the driver window, something cops would not let people do generally, I thought. 

The police purposely drove away from me standing at my mailbox.  I ran after them. I believe they saw me, but they ignored me.

~ * ~

So many strange interludes have happened my spinning heads need an axis like a globe.

~  * ~

It’s incredible.  The cop simply asked the judge to curtail my liberties, and she did.  Based on no evidence of violence or danger, he was granted a restraining order against me.  I believe bias was at play. 

The cop worked for Land of Motown Community College, downstate, but he kept a second home up north, kitty corner across the street from mine, for years, apparently. 

For whatever reasons, my dead husband and I had never met the people or even seen the people. 

Something like 11,000 inland lakes dot Michigan.  What’s that line from Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart says about Ingrid Bergman?  “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

~ * ~

I must have been Hitler or Hitler’s bookie, in a former life.  I am so sorry to bring human genocide into this story, and I mean no offense, nor do I, at this time, feel like hurling hateful words, as I often do, home alone.  I am just trying to tell this crazy story, so I can throw this story off a cliff and finally live free of it once more.  Frankly, I sometime feel like Anne Frank. 

~ * ~ 

All this fallout and retaliation because some guy, the evil labor attorney architect of my demise, wanted to prove he could take out a union teacher near union ground zero, sort of like the bet made in the movie Trading Places over Eddie Murphy. 

A retelling of Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper (which I have never read), says Wikipedia, in the picture a couple of rich old white guys switch a Wall Street trader with a black man they find on the street to test nature versus nurture, for their own pleasure. 

Like Eddie Murphy, I’m a gummy smiler, too, though I have lost teeth and my smiley face. 

~ * ~

I need to find my smile, and earn money for cosmetic dentistry.  But I’m not lying for a juicy book deal.

~ * ~

Anyway, are you starting to disbelieve me yet? 

Are you starting to think, The broad is nutz!  I’m glad they locked her up!

I worry that’s what everyone thinks.

~ * ~

On a beautiful late August night, after I borrowed a lawn mower and used it, I was sitting with my dog and bird on the back porch, the best room in the cabin. 

I can’t speak for the animals, but I was watching the sun illuminate fuzzies and bugs, as it set slowly and sloppily. 

The back porch faced west looking over the lake between pine trees which were planted by Harry as seedlings, perhaps based on the mountain scenery he loved in Idaho, which he encountered in the service and sketched on an envelope. 

Thinking back at the light, I’m reminded of dripping fake maple syrup stuck on a racist sexist plastic decanter. 

I am sure that’s just me. 

But there’s a reason!  I am not crazy! 

My dead husband preferred Aunt Jemima over Log Cabin, which must have been his father’s choice in fake maple syrup. 

You know how kids are.  Always rebelling.

~ * ~

I can’t believe I lost both houses Harry and Chris worked so hard to buy and hold. 

I loved the men, even the one I did not meet, and their houses, so much, much more than the house in which I grew up, not too many miles away.

~ * ~

Of course, I’m delaying again.

~ * ~

A wondrous Lake Miramichi moment was marked and shattered.   Three Michigan State Police troopers rounded the corner of the house.  I was murdered a second time by the negative effects of criminal and abusive mental health care. 

I was handcuffed, again, and put in a police cruiser again. 

This time I was an alleged perpetrator, but I was not shoved. 

This time I did not revel in the circus of life and sing and entertain while the cops drove me to jail.  But I did shout.  I did offer to buy Jesus rapes for all.

In God We Fuck.  Sure, for a buck!

~ * ~

I had not stopped petitioning and redressing state government for justice, for elusive equal protection. 

I had repainted Jesus Raped Me 2 with Act Peace 2. 

My second civil right protest sign display up north grew larger than the first downstate.

~ * ~ 

Really, I think I was restrained and incarcerated because the cop’s former cop dog German Shepperd rushed my dog, also a German Shepperd, who was much more relaxed, and bit him, around the neck.

It was a scene. The cop was not there. The wife was.

~ * ~ 

Plus, as you can imagine, nobody at the exclusive lake community liked my signs. 

~ * ~

The point was to silence and crush me.

~ * ~

I did not stalk a cop. 

Nobody stalks a cop.

Chapter: In the Big House

I spent 35 days in the Osceola County jail, located in Reed City, Michigan, childhood home of my adopted literary parent, writer Jim Harrison, writer of the novella The Legends of the Fall.  The movie adaptation starred Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins. 

~ * ~

I watched tv footage of the state attorney general announce his campaign for governor while I was wearing prisoner orange in jail. 

~ * ~ 

The problem with jail is not the attire.  The problem with jail is the locked doors and lack of fresh air (like the looney bin).

~ * ~ 

This is just a preview. 

I could and should write an essay about just the books I read in jail, from re-reading The Great Gatsby (Maureen Corrigan, commentator on Fresh Air, is right; it does not hold up) to Rick Warren’s the Purpose Driven Life (going to bible study and Baptist church services equaled passes out the jail room bunk house for gals).   

~ * ~

The most memorable line was hurled at me by the jail room bitch in charge, with whom I did not get along.  She ruled the tv channel changer, so she could watch all weekend long, back to back nonstop episodes of The Walking Dead on AMC. 

She objected to my crying when I arrived, which got me a few hours in solitary confinement. 

“Do you need a band aid for your vagina?” 

~ * ~

I used money sent to me mysteriously by someone on the outside (who used a pseudonym) to start my own jailhouse gang, so I could be left alone to read and write in the old style black and white covered composition journal given to me by the bible study ladies. 

I stole the second in charge from the mean broad by buying her right-hand woman tampons from the commissary. 

~ * ~

In short, it was the worst pajama party ever, worse than the looney bin.

There is a lot more to say about a month-long stay in a rural county jail.

~ * ~ 

After I was finally released from jail, I still faced a year and half of servitude. 

~ * ~  

I was appointed a lawyer by the court, a white guy, middle age, one stereotypically not good, I feared, when I saw his beaten-up fingernails and noted a facial tic.   

(I know.  I should be careful and be aware of using against others unfairly the tools used unfairly against me.) 

I feared rightly.  I would say my court appointed lawyer was fairly bad, in the end. 

~ * ~

I’ve had plenty of time to reflect and review.   

Incarcerated, I had time to hand write a second copy of all letters I wrote and mailed from jail. 

I tried to tell my story to my court appointed lawyer using pencil and legal pad purchased through the commissary along with envelopes and stamps. 

My lawyer did not listen to me or defend me. 

For example, it was up to me to fight the judge’s request for a psychiatric exam at the state mental hospital in Ann Arbor, three hours away.  My lawyer did not even give me a heads up about the notice to appear.  He never gave me a clear answer about whether or not he tried to fight the judge’s order. His gate keeper was a smooth operator, and sometimes bitch, who knew she had me.

~ * ~

The request for a psychiatric exam at the state mental hospital in Ann Arbor was made by the same judge who had the audacity, and the power, to tell me that she would award the cop’s request for a restraining order. 

She actually told me to my face with derision that getting flowers from me would be frightening and potentially dangerous. 

Which is a shame because I use to be so charming. 

I swear, getting perennial flowers from me, dug out of my garden, is not dangerous.

~ * ~

I had given the strange and hostile new-to-me neighbors’ household a bucket of orange day lilies, which I placed at the end of their driveway, after the bird whipping incident followed by the state cop visit to the neighbor’s house.   

I felt a sense of doom coming from the wife though we never stood close to one another.  

Prior to court, I did encounter her a couple times briefly, unlike her husband.   

When their dog bit mine, she needed to hop on an ATV to retrieve him from my property where her dog was making like a vampire around my dog’s neck. 

~ * ~

Their German Shepperd was a retired police attack dog.  Mine is a goof. They say dogs become like their owners. 

~ * ~

I am not dangerous.  I have not become dangerous because of bogus mental health care.

~ * ~

The husband and wife team responded to day lilies with court action. 

To win the restraining order, the cop named the officials from Land of Motown Community College, who designed the end of my career and suicide swatted me.  These two gentlemen were named by the cop under oath on record as the source of the slanderous claim that I was capable and likely to burn down the cop complainant’s second home, so he needed a restraining order against dangerous crazy me.

~ * ~

I have no history with arson. 

I should not need to say that. 

Once your civil rights are stripped, they can be easily further peeled away. 

~ * ~  

As far as I know, I did not violate the restraining order against the husband, the Land of Motown Community College cop I never met, but I was arrested anyway. 

Chapter: Losing the Lakehouse: It Only Gets Worse,

There are more outlandish details to report about this cop, and his behavior, but you won’t believe me. 

The back woods legal system held me under the restraints of bail for ten months.  The restraints of bail closely matched the restraints of probation that followed.  Probation was originally slated to last one year, twelve months, although that’s not what happened. 

Of course, I did not trust a plea deal with ambiguous edges connected to a bogus charge and a lying cop from my criminally abusive former employer. 

~ * ~

The legal system dog whipped me on both bond and probation. 

~ * ~

When it served power to say I was crazy, without cause, they locked me up in looney bin, named after the wardens. 

When it served power to say I was a criminal, they chained me and whipped me best as they could.  

~ * ~

The cabin sat on the county line between Osceola and Mecosta County.  Both counties targeted me.  Once one laid low-ish, the other kicked in. 

The Mecosta County prosecutor sent a posse, a county cop and my least favorite DHHS agent, to visit me on the fifth anniversary of my illegal looney bin lock up, in 2018. 

Of course, I have FOIA documentation from the county and 911 dispatch to support this claim.  Or else I would not utter such clear evidence of a concerted effort against me. 

~ * ~

I have videotaped these subsequent police interactions. 

The point seems to be to scare me into a situation in which the police could claim they needed to take me away.   

~ * ~

I continue to suspect back channel collusion between Bill Schuette supporters, however ragged, due to information I have uncovered through FOIA. 

~ * ~

On Youtube, you can watch a number of cops turn their back on me when I mention the witch hunt, the attorney general, the doctor at St. Mary Merciless, or ask them their names. 

~ * ~

FOIA is extremely important. 

According to reports, Michigan FOIA laws are the weakest in the nation.   

Have I said that already?

~ * ~

I have been in some way harassed or jangled every year during the anniversary of the week I was gone. 

Facebook Memories helped me see this fact that I documented on Facebook.  

Either I have been graced by poorly trained welfare checks, forced to defend myself in probate court against home seizure due to owed back taxes, hassled by the health department, or kicked off social media by trolls.  Every year. 

~ * ~

My attackers don’t want peace like I do.

~ * ~

I never violated probation and was never found guilty after a hearing for any violations of probation. 

I was accused of probation violations and threatened with additional jail time. 

The accusations made no sense and in their lunacy were terrifying. 

Lunatic power on the loose after me.  Pissed off because I’m still on the loose.

If you like action and adventure, or at least cheap thrills, you gotta love the following twist.

Wait for the Adolf Hitler connection.

I was accused by a consort of online trolls of violating probation for texting.

The online trolls somehow pranked the Osceola County prosecutor and the Michigan Department of Corrections, and also pranked the judge.

So naturally, I was in big trouble, as the fall crone.

~ * ~

The judge is the daughter of a Republican in the state senate, it’s worth noting.

~ * ~ 

Texting is something I was always allowed to do.  In fact, I exchanged texts with my probation officer, who texted me first. 

However–hang in there for a nice pay off–somehow the prosecutor obtained my Facebook Messenger text messages.  Sent to me by trolls.  Who teased me about violating probation. 

One troll “liked” both Oakland County cops and politician Adolf Hitler.   

Yes!  This crazy story returns to Hitler! And not because of my own hand.

~ * ~

Thank goodness for screen shots, although evidence hasn’t helped me so far in the civic arena. 

~ * ~

The other troll the year prior threated to kill my dog, rape and murder me through e-mail, which the Michigan State Police preferred to totally ignore.  They were too busy falsely prosecuting me for stalking Land of Motown Community College lying cop #2.

~ * ~

This nightmare caused by mental health care refuses to end.

Chapter: Chapter: Return to Class at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College Cut Short by Land of Motown Community College and the Osceola County Prosecutor?

So far, I’ve done a lousy job saving my own life. 

Telling my story over and over without justice kills me as much as living my story.

Just like my dead husband feared, I lost the both houses, secondly the lakehouse.  I did hold out and walk away with a little start up cash, but things just keep getting stranger and worse.

~ * ~ 

Somehow, in a new town, in yet another Michigan town, in August 2018, putting away my Jeremiah Johnson/Little House on the Prairie garb, I was hired to teach community college composition courses again, after a six-year hiatus. 

That’s unbelievable, considering my protest voice and social media accounts. 

~ * ~

My placement did not feel safe, but I showed up to teach every day I was required at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten State Community College. 

~ * ~

I did not feel secure.  Each day required waking through water.  But I did it.  It was working.  Rough around the edges, but students were learning. 

~ * ~

I figured students could see through my flimsy act.  I was not alright.  I was shaky.  Not like I was accused of being shaky, like unstable, instead like being out of shape and insecure, beaten shaky. 

~ * ~

I was older and dumpier.  I had been way out of the picture.  I didn’t have work clothes.

~ * ~

Like a spy, I was living a double life.  I knew I would be found out.

~ * ~

It didn’t take long for a campus cop to sniff me out.

~ * ~ 

I know, this story is tiresome.  I’m exhausted.  I doubt anyone even read this far.  I am not crazy out of my mind unable to reason.

~ * ~

I know through FOIA that the cop, who happens to look like Joe Biden, did not record our interaction on his police log. 

Mafia-style, with a smile, he gave me a message without using direct words: we know about you, you won’t be here long, so don’t get comfortable. That was September 13, early in the fall semester. 

~ * ~

I texted my probation officer because I was required to report all police contact. 

~ * ~

I surmise Land of Motown Community College contacted Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten State Community College. 

Get this: on the same day the state attorney general was not dead (because of course I had no intention of killing him), and on the same day he did not win election to become governor–six years to almost the calendar date that I was pulled from the classroom at Land of Motown Community College (or maybe the exact calendar date, depending on which records I cross reference)–I was pulled from the classroom at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten State Community College, in early November 2018.

I was pulled from the classroom again.  Again, nothing had happened.  And again Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten State Community College did not feel the need to supply any real reason, just general mumbo jumbo of the human resource trade. 

Vague unnamed concerns.

~ * ~

At this point, I’ve been murdered and ripped apart and left alone in my zombie existence so many times, I really should have either 1) become suicidal, 2) dropped dead of a fatal heart attack or aneurism or 3) been shot dead on one of too many bogus police welfare checks.  All because of mental health care. 

I saw on Facebook a Japanese manga image of a character on the ground, in grim black and grey, sewing himself back together.  The image imprinted itself on my mind like a tattoo.

~ * ~

You really can’t imagine my pain, like I can’t imagine yours, though we can try. 

At the same time, I forget my own strength.  You too? 

~ * ~

A lawyer for Inside of the Thumb Mitten State Community College contacted the Michigan Department of Corrections. 

The school tried to have me jailed on those bogus accusations of probation violations, so I would not smear the college’s name.  

Wow, people really don’t like me anymore, and it hurts.

~ * ~

The cop who harassed me turned out to be an out of the closet Fox News style conservative with flagrant admissions of sexism and racism in his profile posting.  He did not hesitate to name himself a police officer for Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College as he denigrated women on social media, I found out very quickly on Facebook.

~ * ~

My probation officer named Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College in her final report asking for jail time.  She also conflated the college’s concern for it image with my mental health. 

She wrote: “The agent’s supervisor was . . . contacted by the attorney for Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College to express their concerns for the threats to smear their image and place things on social media as well as the potential self-harm.”    

It was suggested that I may be crazy enough to deserve additional jail time, which is nonsensical on top of goofiness. 

~ * ~

I actually respected by probation officer. 

Was she forced to join the effort to silence me?

“Since the defendant’s termination from her employment,” she commented, “this agent has received seven additional emails from the defendant discussing Land of Motown Community College and how she is being tortured by the state of Michigan.”

~ * ~

The Michigan Department of Corrections report asked for immediate sentencing, five months earlier than probation was scheduled to end, which was not a present. 

My probation officer concluded: “It is the recommendation of the probation department that the defendant lost the benefit of the delay of sentence.” 

In other words, erase my vague plea deal, erase my good behavior on probation, and find me guilty. 

A felony stalking charge was reduced to a misdemeanor stalking charge. My court appointed lawyer originally had suggested the whole thing might completely disappear, wiped off the books, or be reduced to a misdemeanor disturbing the peace kind of thing.

But he was very slippery in a rustic remote local kind of way, hidden in the old northwest territories with usually no one telling him otherwise so publicly.

~ * ~

The MDOC suggested ending probation, but also asked for 55 additional days in the Osceola County jail. 

For clearly purely fabricated and under-handed reasons. 

~ * ~

The judge granted the request for a sudden immediate hearing to sentence me and end open delayed sentencing. 

A court date was scheduled to take place after Martin Luther King Jr. Day. 

The 49^th District Court threatened me with jail from the beginning of November 2018, when I was pulled from the classroom again, through the end of January 2019. 

It was a long winter season from Thanksgiving until my next and final scheduled court appearance. 

My criminal lawyer, this time I paid him with proceeds from the sale of the lakehouse, was having a baby.  Again, I had to hold the system in check myself.  

Sleuthing the trolls mentioned in the MDOC report and finding sheer nonsense, I wrote the judge directly, twice, as court documentation unfolded and was presented to me, through November and December, about the gaping problems in the MDOC and prosecutor’s behavior.  

My lawyer won’t agree with me, I surmise, but I think I may have had as much to do about keeping me out of jail as he did.

~ * ~    

When I finally got to court, for about my thirteenth or fourteenth visit in full, spanning nearly two years, again, the judge did not hold a hearing.  Again, she concluded manners privately in her chambers, without me.  With brief ceremony, in court, she gave me a misdemeanor attempted stalking charge.  She covered up the cop and Hitler loving highly suspicious troll action.  I was not allowed to speak.

~ * ~

Chapter: “Someone is After You”: No Good Ending?

I am coming to terms with the recent present. 

What should I do next?  

I need to apply for work with a resume and career only filled with community college teaching positions. 

I need to respond “yes” to I have a criminal record.

~ * ~

My family? 

Is Catholic.  God, my mother and the state stand against me, on my every and last nerve. 

I have no family. 

~ * ~

I know no one.   Just my dog and bird.

~ * ~

I talk to myself. 

I am not schizophrenic. 

I was over evaluated by the hack shrinks, never evaluated by the people who locked me up, and I was never labeled schizophrenic.  No one has ever asked me if I talk to myself, aloud or in my head.  I do both.  I started talking to myself while growing up in a disturbed home, mother delusional Catholic, dad gone. 

There was no else intelligent to talk to, so I began talking to myself alone in my room, even before I attended without choice poor quality Catholic schools. 

I am not crazy.  My mind is rich, but I am not by my nature broken.  This is my way. 

Look around the grocery store. 

A lot of people talk to themselves. 

~ * ~

I am not a super human, but I was not broken. 

I did not need the treatment that was forced upon me. 

I was not seriously mental ill, unable to take care of myself, or confused about reality.

~ * ~

Bogus mental health care can torture a person into sounding like an automaton in order to try in vain to defend themselves.

~ * ~

I can report much more about my current psychological condition, but it is dangerous for me to do so. 

I could talk about my home alone anti-Catholic cursing.  I verbally regurgitate repetitions of the many rote repetitions of the Catholic mass I was forced to experience. 

I could analyze the way a priest cuts open the church by walking down the aisle with a metal crucifix and how that action imprinted upon my mind. 

There are definitely things to consider regarding the constant central display of a bleeding mostly naked white man, on a cross, at the front of every room, within Catholic land. 

The same honor to death hangs around the necks of every nun and priest. 

~ * ~

Eating god, drinking god blood. 

I just watched and did what I told, as a child, dazed and confused, then slowly as I became a teenager starting sensing my revulsion. 

Worst religion ever.  For me.

~ * ~   

It is simply unacceptable for my own state government to help the church I left ruin my life and commit criminal mental abuse and get away with it in the United States of America. 

A religion that believes in virgin birth, resurrection, ascension and an infallible pope is not allowed to call me crazy dangerous. 

The sexist Catholic Church is not allowed to lock me away in Catholic Siberia. 

The Felician Nuns are not allowed to recapture me and hold me down as their bridegroom Jesus rapes me. 

~ * ~

I treat social media posting about my story as an uneasy combination of documentation like a journalist and intimate diary admissions.

I say things people don’t like, and I pay dearly for it.

I don’t know what else to do.

I’m still trying to save my life. 

~ * ~ 

I have documented my panic attacks, depression and anger on social media.  

I have shared my hurt inner child and my venom. 

I have prayed. 

~ * ~

I am doing the best I can under the circumstances, which means my panic attacks this past winter were massive.  Removed from the classroom again.  Threatened with jail again.  Officials acting even crazier.  No allies.  No reason to hope except for blind faith, but certainly not faith in religion or government, so faith in what?

~ * ~ 

I faced the sixth-year anniversary of my looney bin lock up at the end of February, thankfully not in jail, but with my mind spinning.  Yes, the police stopped by to make sure I was suffering.  If the neighbors are calling, of course they deserve peace and security. 

But what about me?  Where am I suppose to go? 

Hurt me and I feel pain. 

~ * ~

I believe I have endured some level, hopefully low and recoverable, of brain damage from crying panic attacks.  I have endured periods of dizziness and headache.  I think I must be a candidate for brain aneurism, or stroke.  Maybe not.  I hope not. 

I guess.  What else can I do? My Magic Eight Ball is broken.

I am terrified of homelessness as a next logical plot marker in my story.

While editing, I received a notice to quit my apartment.

~ * ~

Some days this past winter, I could hardly move, but I did, though slowly, with great effort, and not well. 

~ * ~

Spring weather helps.

Just keep going, I tell myself.  Out loud.

Fight against criminal mental health care and its potentially life-ending effects.  Take action.  Find a next step.  Just keep going.

~ * ~

I contacted Dr. John and pleaded, demanded, wrote nicely: I need a follow up visit and a letter of recommendation for a therapist in my area.  I can’t walk in blind with my story. 

He declined.  I got the impression he wanted to protect his past missteps.  It is extra painful for your own therapist to turn on you. 

~ * ~ 

Isn’t there a limit to the amount of pain a person can feel?  I’d assumed incorrectly there was a rock bottom like people talk about.

~ * ~

I am exploring what I called art therapy.  I painted a great deal this past winter, quickly, on cheap paper, creating an art diary, which has helped tremendously. 

~ * ~

Good health remains a constant battle, like mediating daily is a challenge, even though it is also very helpful.

~ * ~ 

I have recast my story in cartoon form to help me cope.  I’ve imagined a collection of characters, all shades of me, who rally around a Wicked Witch.  I’ve tried to recast the Wicked Witch into a much nicer Dashboard Dolly, a cigar smoking Hawaiian hula girl in her later years.

~ * ~

When the pain of mental abuse rages, I suffer so greatly I can understand violence and suicide, but I am not violent or suicidal, which means I’m caged. 

I am trapped in criminal mental abuse.  

And I need out. 

~ * ~

I have petitioned the new state governor and attorney general for redress.  I have not received reply, which means I have not been dismissed or acknowledged, but the cops showed up twice in the past two months.  Because I cry loudly.   I assume a neighbor has called.   I hope neighbors have called.  My landlady is nice but concerned, which is reasonable.  I continue to fight to save my life, working on many fronts: FOIA, sleuth, look for work.  Appeal to my landlady?  

~ * ~

Things only get worse.  This last year has been the worst. 

~ * ~

I am trying.  I have been trying this whole time.

~ * ~

I am not delusional.  I am suffering from extreme long-term mind rape.  The pain is incredible. 

Do I want to go to the hospital?  No!  The only cure is justice and there is no justice.

I don’t need to be locked up again because I was locked up in a mental ward due to criminal action, without need, with utmost cruelty.

~ * ~

I need justice, but nothing I’ve tried so far works.

~ * ~

I have aged tremendously. 

Stress causes me to clench my jaw so badly I cracked a molar from the root, inside my skull, on the left.  Took me something like almost two years to end the tooth ache and find the right solution.

~ * ~

On my right, earache is developing, same cause, I sense. 

Bogus mental health care is causing me to detonate from within.

I’m 55 but feel 75, with arthritis, injury, conditions, all systems severely worn and torn. 

~ * ~

My own image scares me.  The bloom has faded, dropped and rotted.  This is not an easy transition, from middle age to old age early, especially this way. 

~ * ~

One of the first things I bought with money from the sale of the lakehouse, besides an 18-year-old vehicle, made before 9-11, were new shoes.  Improving my mobility is a primary concern.  I do not enjoy admitting it, but I now wobble and hobble.

~ * ~

Things need to improve.  Soon.  If I can’t get a job and can’t keep an apartment, will the state simply let me live under an over path or in woods?  I fear another final third lock up.  I fear they’ll throw away the key. 

I fear they’ll point to the wrong paper trail, that of my attackers, instead of my own.

~ * ~ 

I understand the fairy tale witch.  I am keenly aware that the people least believed are those deemed crazy.  Especially fairy tale witches of a certain age with grey hair and missing teeth, like me. 

The madwoman in the attic is a story that has taken hold and been retold too many times without asking the woman. 

Which is a shame, because I use to be so charming within my small circles.

~ *

I like to hope that there is an effort behind the scenes among maybe press and newly elected state officials to help me finally win justice against my attackers, essentially, Land of Motown Community College and St. Mary Merciless.  

Hope is delusional for victims of criminal mental abuse, and ironic.

Ironically painful. 

~ * ~

I know perfectly well what day and time it is, thank you.  Your methods are flawed. 

~ * ~

Why don’t they understand they are breaking me, stop and help?

~ * ~

If I had known the Felician Nuns were running a mental ward, I never would have moved back to Michigan.  That’s a wry joke.  I feel like I need to explain myself at every turn and demonstrate how sane and connected to real world I am, with a cogent wide perspective. 

~ * ~

The trick to life that I have learned it is to just keep going, like Thelma & Louise, but not drive off the cliff.

~ * ~

I should have gone to school to be a painter. 

Instead, I have been unfortunate enough to color with the Catholics twice in my life. 

The first time as a child. 

There was no art teacher at my Catholic grade school.  The nuns walked us uniformed students in ordered rows down to the basement multi-purpose room. 

I recall learning how to draw a cube off black and white tv. 

Finally, information I wanted. 

The second time I colored with the Catholics was much like
the first, held captive under the numbing glow of a television set hanging on the wall, no one in the room running the show.

Apologies. Links to next chapter under construction. Don’t use labeled link below. To continue reading, please go back to the list of sections and choose the next chapter. Thank you!

Read Part Five