My Bio - Part 42

I’ve often been told I’m very smart. Yet even the smartest people can make poor decisions at times, and so I responded to Tammy’s brief Facebook message in early 2009 saying that she hoped I was doing well. I saw no harm in sharing why I felt I could never forgive her, leaving a link to my journal in my reply so she could read my feelings in more detail. God knows I’d discussed them enough there, after all.

However, instead of apologizing for her irrational behavior in defending her abusive ex and her role in my arrest, she denied any wrongdoing, insisting she never knew where I’d moved to and that it was Bill who’d called the police, not her.

I thought about it and realized that yes, Bill might have been the one to call the cops, but he couldn’t have known where to send them if he or Tammy didn’t have some clue as to my location. My guess? Tammy had probably called people in the Phoenix area with our last name until she found someone in Tom’s family willing to share our address. I’m sure they believed her intentions were good, but I still felt betrayed.

Tammy might not have known about the default warrant any more than we did, yet she still called and sent letters to Tom, bashing me and defending Bill. By then, she was married to her third husband, so I had no reason to think she still had feelings for Bill—especially after his abuse of both her and Lisa. Over the years, I’d read about how domestic violence can severely impact a person’s psyche. I felt for the women who stood up to their abusers, ending the cycle, but I struggled to empathize with those who not only didn’t fight back but seemed to seek out abusive relationships and attack those who spoke out against their abusers. I don’t think Tammy enjoyed the abuse itself; rather, I think she enjoyed the sympathy she’d receive when discussing it with others. But only Tammy could truly know, and I wasn’t about to try to dissect her mind. She was an adult, free to make her choices, however harmful they might be. All I knew was that I felt shocked, angry, and disgusted with her behavior, convinced more than ever that she wasn’t someone I should be associating with, sister or not.

Yet Tammy piqued my curiosity—was it really that easy to find someone online?

I typed in my nieces’ names.

It was.

I found myself staring at a profile photo of my youngest niece and noticed her rather vulgar screen name. Her profile, like her sisters’, was private, so I couldn’t see much else.

Stupid mistake number two: I messaged her, mentioning her screen name and casually saying hello. I added that she didn’t have to reply, and while I was sure most of what she’d heard about me was exaggerated, it was best for us to continue on our separate ways. Then I wished her luck and signed off.

If I’m honest, the message was less about reconnecting and more about curiosity. So yes, I admit it. I didn’t care about saying hi or wishing her a happy birthday. I got a kick out of the thought of her reading my journal and sharing it with her sisters if she followed the link on my profile. I knew Tammy wouldn’t be pleased.

She wasn’t.

My inbox was flooded the next day with messages from both Tammy and Sarah on MySpace and the journal site. I hadn’t expected to hear from Sarah, so her rude response caught me off guard. But really, why should I have been surprised? Didn’t the apple usually fall close to the tree?

Her message said she was standing by her mother, unsurprisingly, given she was just 18 at the time. She mentioned there was still some “damage” there and hinted at remembering past letters I’d sent her parents.

Then the cyberbullying began. I was stalked from site to site and threatened. Eventually, Tammy admitted she’d called the cops a decade ago, intending to get me in jail, and could do it again. She didn’t say it outright, but “I did it once; I can do it again” was enough for me.

She threatened to show up at our “dingy trailer” in California and take legal action against me for harassment and slander, even though they had sought out my journal on their own, and I was simply sharing my opinions and thoughts, not for any profit and not providing any identifying info. She demanded I never contact anyone in her family again, mocked my photos, called my husband “queer,” and wished us ill. She even made fun of our financial struggles.

When I’m angry, I try to keep things fair, and I wasn’t about to say she was a bad cook, for example, just because I was mad at her. The truth is, no matter my feelings toward her, she was a good cook.

Tammy was just the opposite. Suddenly, I wasn’t good at the things she once said I excelled in when she wasn’t angry at me. She mocked the things she’d empathize with if we were on good terms. She’d also invent events that never happened. If she was mad at me for something I actually said or did, she’d not only be quick to mention it but would also add in anything else she could make up on the spot.

I began posting their nasty messages in my journal, hoping it would embarrass them enough to back off since the diary site didn’t have a ‘block user’ feature. But they didn’t seem to care about how they were incriminating themselves. I had checked the laws because I learned the hard way that what you didn’t know really could hurt you, and I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal. Tammy, on the other hand, was.

Eventually, Lisa contacted me, insisting that despite what they’d said, I was still her aunt. She bashed her mother and gave me the impression that they were no longer speaking.

I was hesitant to respond but eventually told her that while I wished her well, I didn’t think it was wise for us to be in touch, knowing her mother would likely pressure her to stop if she found out.

Lisa insisted she had been trying to locate me for years and genuinely wanted a place in my life, so I left it at that. I answered whatever messages she sent without initiating any of my own. I just wanted to be polite, not necessarily friendly.

Not long after, Lisa exposed her true colors. She messaged me in a fury, accusing me of “lying” to her grandfather about when we’d first talked, saying I’d mentioned April when it was actually August. Her message also declared that whatever happened between her and her mother was none of my business (after taking it upon herself to divulge info about it).

I finished reading her message, saddened and embarrassed for her and her mother. The sudden change in her was astonishing. She’d gone from zero to a hundred in seconds. I wasn’t sure if it was drugs or plain instability, but it was sad knowing that some people had nothing better to do than jump to conclusions and then harass others. If she had calmly asked me, I’d have explained that I never mentioned when we began talking to my father. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned her at all—just that Tammy had reached out, and I wasn’t interested in reconnecting. But, sure enough, they dragged my parents into it, involving them in drama they didn’t need at their age and with their own challenges.

I didn’t bother responding to Lisa’s message. Instead, I added it to my daily entry, knowing she would read it and not be pleased. Maybe this would teach her to ask questions before accusing.

But then I stopped to think. Did my writing about them actually bother them? Hmm… I wasn’t so sure anymore. If it really did, why were they still reading my journal? And why did they keep sending me nasty messages that they knew I’d publish?

Holy crap, I thought as Tammy and Lisa continued their harassment. They’re getting a thrill out of this! They actually want me to write about them. It almost chilled me to think that someone in their fifties could enjoy such childish nonsense. It saddened me too. Had Tammy’s life become that miserable? I also realized that their desire to get me jailed wasn’t because my writing bothered them but because they were simply that vengeful.

I started closing as many access points as I could, now disturbed by the idea of them reading my journal, knowing they were enjoying it. But then I came to not care one way or the other who read it, something I suspect Tammy and her kids eventually tired of. After all, what’s so exciting about someone’s “dingy trailer” life full of “rats, dolls, and a ‘queer’ husband”?

Ah, the sweetness of cyber revenge. It was gratifying for a while, and I even slipped my journal link to a few others whose names I won’t mention.

But I’d had enough of Tammy and her unstable brood and was ready to move on without them. Even if we’d gotten along, I saw no point in buddying up with someone on the other side of the country with whom I shared nothing in common. We had different interests, tastes, and views on life. She was night; I was day. And I certainly didn’t need to associate with a bunch of twenty-somethings either.

Any “get-lost” spells out there? I wondered. God seemed to be ignoring most of my prayers, including the ones asking for Tom to get a job, so I didn’t expect any divine help. Instead, I lay down and entered a meditative state. I visualized their faces, distasteful as it was, and then imagined those images dissolving into nothing. Just nothing. I reminded myself they couldn’t harm me and that I had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t that I was afraid they’d actually harm me or take me to court. I was just tired of their harassment on the one site where I couldn’t block them, and I certainly wasn’t about to inconvenience myself by leaving. So I willed them out of my life as hard as I could.

And then I stopped hearing from them.

But Tammy left me with something: a newfound interest in social sites. I updated and spruced up my profiles. I didn’t care about racking up “friends,” but I was curious to see if I could reconnect with people I’d known.

My Bio - Part 41

NOTE: This section updated in March 2010.

It has been nearly two years since we left the motel and moved into the secluded little trailer in the woods. I was battling a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder, while he held onto hopes of a better future for us. It wasn’t that I lacked hope; I just approached it more cautiously, knowing our plans rarely materialized as envisioned—sometimes for the better, sometimes not.

Living in this trailer with Jesse as our landlord has been both good and bad, but mostly good. Until November of 2008, it was the quietest place we’d ever lived, with only a few scattered barking fits, engine-gunning sprees from Jesse, and occasional gunshots. The neighbors’ pit bulls were a problem until complaints forced them to keep the dogs tied up after they tried to attack one of Jesse’s dogs and someone’s goat.

Jesse can be a pest, and his dogs, Whiskey and Brandy, drive me crazy. They weren’t much trouble until November, when they would go crazy whenever Jesse left, barking for hours. This persisted until mid-April, quieting down only to repeat the following November.

During our first four months here, Jesse was a constant presence, always coming down to tell us something, work on something, or address plumbing issues. I wished he didn’t live here, especially when our repeated requests to call first for non-emergencies were ignored. Though he still visits more than I’d like, it’s less frequent now.

Jesse went from always being home to never being home, with his incredibly loud motorcycle being more disruptive than his dogs. I have to crank up the sound machines to sleep during the day.

We’ve made some progress since moving to California, but we haven’t achieved what we came here for. We’re still broke and uninsured. Obama’s healthcare reform bill was signed into law today, but we won’t benefit from it for four years. Few jobs offer insurance, and Tom, despite his optimism, remains jobless in a collapsed economy. He thinks the election year will bring jobs this summer, and I hope he’s right because, without jobs, we’ll never get ahead.

The recession changed things. I stopped winning sweepstakes and contests, despite my efforts and spells. I felt it was time to move on to something new, which happened when Tom read about a site paying people to perform AI tasks. We started relying on these tasks after he was laid off, initially fearing a bigger nightmare than the motel ordeal. Despite our efforts to pawn items to survive, we never seem to get ahead, no matter how hard we try. We’ve had to accept what we can’t change. Even though we haven’t saved money or bought a house, at least Jesse lets us pay rent when we can without late fees, unlike a management company. Nearly a year later, we bought back the TV and iMac.

I grew tired of collecting dolls, a habit I was glad to let go of since they were expensive and a pain to dust. So, I retired my collection and even sold some of it off.

After reaching a record high of around 150 pounds by the time we left the motel, I started dieting and exercising, dropping down to 125 pounds—not the 110 I’d ideally like, but good enough for now.

I cut my hair to shoulder length, tired of the weight of overly long hair that had started creeping past my butt.

I found out that my parents hadn’t cut me off entirely. After months without hearing from them, I received a reply to one of my letters. I wouldn’t have minded if they had chosen not to associate with me since I wouldn’t want anyone in my life who didn’t want to be there. But as long as they don’t drive me crazy, they’re welcome to stay in touch. I think we get along better by not “mixing” family members and thereby avoiding he-said/she-said conflicts. My sister and nieces nearly drove a wedge between my folks and me until my father confronted her, and she backed off the cyberbullying. I try to send my folks a letter each month and call every few months to let them know we’re alive and see how they’re doing.

Despite the economic struggles, we found ways to have fun. I started learning Italian through a language site someone recommended and even took their Portuguese and German courses. Now, I’m fluent in three languages and am slowly gaining fluency in three others.

Social sites became a major craze. Initially, I joined sites like Facebook, MySpace, and Kiwibox mainly for their occasional contests.

One day, while entering a contest on an old social network, I noticed they had a section for journals. Wow! I thought to myself. People actually shared their journals with the world?

Then again, why not? This wasn’t the 50s. It was the 2000s when most things were aired out in public, and few things remained private. Most topics were hardly unheard of. People didn’t gasp in shock anymore if a gay person walked into the room, as they might have 40 or 50 years ago. People discussed sensitive topics like sexual abuse as casually as Christmas shopping. This openness suited me, as I saw no reason why life should be kept secret. Life—everyone had one, and we all experienced ups and downs, made mistakes, celebrated achievements, and had regrets, embarrassing moments, fun times, sadness, happiness, and fear. Did we really need to be ashamed of it? To each their own, but I saw nothing wrong with public journaling, so long as no one threatened anyone or revealed private information. The idea of sharing my entries with the public amused me, though I’m not sure why—it just did. But I would write for myself, as always, and not cater to an audience. The audience would simply be an afterthought. If anything I wrote happened to enlighten, inspire, amuse, or give someone food for thought, that was fine by me.

So, I went “live,” sharing my daily life and sometimes some of my short stories. In the last couple of years, I’ve met many people online. Some have been kind and insightful, while others have been rude and obnoxious. But I understood that in a network where millions interact, there would be some bad apples along with the good, which was to be expected.

I knew there was always the chance of being contacted by someone I didn’t want to hear from on major social sites. And I was.

My Bio - Part 40

The following morning, Saturday, Tom checked the ad for the Auburn trailer and found they’d left a number to call either Maryann or Jesse. He called Maryann first and left a message. She called back shortly, and we arranged to drive out to meet her at the trailer the next day.

The online pictures weren’t that great or detailed, though Tom noted that Maryann did confirm the trailer was secluded. This made me all the more surprised when she mentioned that “the neighbor” had complained about the last tenants. We soon learned that this “neighbor” was actually the owner of the 8-acre parcel, who lived on the property. Maryann and Jesse were initially hesitant to tell us that Jesse, Maryann’s brother, lived there for fear we might be intrusive. But once we met, they sensed we’d be good tenants and let us in on “the neighbor’s” true identity.

Only Maryann greeted us on that first visit, but when we moved in a week later, we met Jesse, too. I sensed the same trust and comfort in them as they did in us, though I occasionally wondered what else they might be hiding—like the fact that they weren’t legally set up to rent the place, which was why all utilities, including phone and internet, had to be in Jesse’s name.

As we drove through the town of Auburn, I was struck by how quaint and lively it was for a small town, with more stores and restaurants than we’d seen back in K-Falls. It took some searching to find the hidden road off one of the busier streets, but eventually, we followed a narrow dirt road that wound through the woods until we reached a fork. The right path wound upwards, while the left descended. A pickup truck, with Maryann waiting for us inside, led us down to the left.

Once the driveway leveled out, we entered a small clearing. My jaw dropped.

“Omigod,” I breathed as I took in my surroundings.

Though I hadn’t expected to find all I’d ever prayed for, any lingering doubts about the power of prayer faded away, though I would later reflect on those times and consider it might have been a coincidence. As I delve further into my life, I’ll explain why.

Stepping out of the car, still in shock, I took in a sweeping view around me. The trailer looked as run-down as the land was serene and gorgeous. Its peeling paint was in sharp contrast to the natural beauty around it, but I didn’t mind. If the surroundings were as peaceful as they seemed, then I didn’t care how old, small, or ugly the trailer was. I knew that if we were accepted, and there were no problems with the owner, we’d never leave unless we won enough money to buy a place of our own. Until then, I’d had no idea such seclusion could be found so close to civilization! I thought you had to drive an hour into the wilderness to escape people and car stereos.

Around us, we could see nothing but trees and mountains. The few houses visible were in the distance, and Jesse’s place was a couple of hundred feet up a hill in front of the trailer.

The inside of the trailer was nicer than the outside. It was 50 feet long and 10 feet wide, most of it remodeled.

When Maryann brought up the dreaded question of credit, I worried we’d lost our chance, but Tom simply explained the situation: someone had stolen his identity, and he was currently disputing it. Maryann smiled sympathetically instead of turning us away, saying she’d gone through something similar, which took her a year to resolve.

Maryann, 55, has a house in nearby Newcastle and works at Safeway. Though she said she’d be managing the trailer, Jesse has done much of the upkeep so far.

Maryann told us that the previous tenants only lasted a month. The woman had let her boyfriend move in, who then attempted to steal Jesse’s motorcycle. The police were called, and they were told to leave and never return.

“Just take our deposit, Maryann,” I thought to myself, hopeful. “We’re your dream renters. Really, we’re the ones you want.”

When she did take the deposit, it was all I could do to keep from squealing, though I knew it wasn’t official until she spoke with Jesse, and they could still change their minds.

That night, just as I was drifting to sleep, I had a vision. The woods appeared around me, and a giant, radiant bouquet of flowers bursting with colors shimmered in sunlight filtering through the trees, brilliant and dazzling.

My heart sped up, and my eyes opened slightly.

I knew we’d be moving in soon.

The next day, Maryann called to tell Tom that while they worried we wouldn’t last long since we didn’t make much money, they’d decided to give us a chance. Rent would be $825, and all we’d need to pay beyond that, aside from food and gas, was for propane and internet. There was no working landline for DSL at the moment, so Jesse generously covered the initial setup costs. He and Tom dug a trench through the trees from Jesse’s pole down the hill to the trailer. Although I was a bit annoyed by the delays due to their reluctance to explain why things had to stay in Jesse’s name, we managed to check our email by cell phone.

The week after first seeing the trailer, we finally checked out for good. Just in time to avoid a third “annual” fire inspection in the eight months we’d been there!

I waited at the door for Tom to appear with the dolly. Seeing him arrive was a joyful sight, something I once thought I’d never live to see. It was emotional for both of us.

We said goodbye to Michelle, and one of the Thai housekeepers came to see us off as we loaded the car. Rosalinda, another housekeeper, waved to us from the second floor.

On April 12, 2008, we happily escaped to the Sierra Nevada foothills, where both Jesse and Maryann awaited us. I was a bit surprised that they waited until move-in day to clean the stove and check the cooler and heater, but at least they took care of it. Soon after, Jesse, who was divorced, left to take his 10-year-old son somewhere. The kid didn’t live with him full-time.

Over the next few weeks, we emptied our storage unit, reducing our monthly expenses by about $400.

Once partly settled, we bought some necessities and a few things we wanted. We redeemed items from the pawnshop and bought a futon, a small dinette, a microwave, a water dispenser, a portable washer, an iPod, some dolls, a camera, a vacuum, and two desks. Mine was small enough to fit in the bedroom. When I won $3,000 in Apple gift cards, we bought two 20” iMacs and a color laser printer.

In less than a year, we had come further than we had in the three years we’d lived in Oregon. While I still don’t know if we’ll ever own a home again, I believe anything is possible.

One day, as I was unpacking, I pulled out an old pair of binoculars and gazed out the window. I was suddenly struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu as I recalled the dream I’d had in the motel before finding this place online. The only difference was that here, the trees were too thick and tall to see any houses through them. Sometimes, I don’t realize a dream is a premonition until it comes true.

After all this time, I’m still amazed we survived that nightmare. One thing’s certain: I’m glad we didn’t end up with Satish’s house!

My Bio - Part 39

Each day Tom returned from work, stopping at the mailbox on the way to the motel to tell me the card still hadn’t arrived, was heart-wrenching. I felt increasingly doomed, out of sorts, physically weak, and emotionally drained.

By Wednesday the 10th, the card still hadn’t come, and we were facing the reality of returning to the streets. The thought of just one day back out there was terrifying—multiple days felt unbearable. If we’d had a camper or even a larger, more comfortable vehicle, it might have been different. But even if we could live forever in our truck, we’d still need money for food and gas. Plus, we needed to shower.

Wednesday was the worst. I literally felt like we were almost dead. I truly believed life as we’d known it was over and that we’d done all we could to try to save ourselves. Lying in bed, trembling and crying while he was at work, I told myself, “Face it, there’s no getting out of this one. You tried your best, but you can’t fix this. Your time’s up. It’s time to focus on the positives of dying—like how you never did want to grow old, arthritic, and get diseases.”

Through teary eyes, I wrote a note to be copied for both our families by whoever might discover us. I explained that while neither of us wanted to die, and while it angered and frustrated us to know that our lives depended on a lousy piece of plastic, people do need money to live. I urged them not to be sad or mad, and to remember that there are as many pros to not living as there are to living. I left login details for my online journals, stories, and photo albums, including information about storage and mail locations. I asked that my friends be contacted as well.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever written, fully believing we’d be gone in a matter of hours. We had agreed to take our lives that night after Tom made one final phone call to the debit card company to get access to our money. The moment he hung up, exhausted and frustrated, I felt true, heart-sinking despair.

We planned to go together just after midnight on Thursday, like a real-life Romeo and Juliet, figuring that anyone around us would likely be asleep and wouldn’t hear anything. We intended to be as quiet as possible, sealing ourselves in the bathroom with tape along the door edges and vents, hoping the room didn’t have a carbon monoxide detector.

That evening, lying in bed while Tom watched TV, I imagined our tombstones. I pictured the dates and wondered where we’d be buried—not that it mattered, but I was naturally curious. Would they separate us, sending me back east? Or would they bury us together in Arizona or California?

I missed Tinkerbell like crazy but was glad she wasn’t there to go through this with us. I also realized I was afraid to die—not so much because of a potential afterlife, but more from the fear of whatever pain I might experience on the way.

I glanced at the clock: 7:15.

Next came the guilt. I felt I wasn’t a strong enough influencer and feared I was pushing Tom into something he didn’t want. Yet, he promised me we were in this together no matter what and would not let me go alone. Neither of us wanted to live without the other, even though neither of us wanted to die.

Then, sadness and anger surfaced over all the small things we wouldn’t get to experience if I couldn’t figure something out, and quickly. I didn’t care if I never got to expand my doll collection, but I wanted to see Tom do what he loved. I wanted to live to listen to my stereo, to see my dolls if I didn’t have to sell them, to hang my wind chimes, to learn Italian, and to finish my stories.

At that moment, I realized dying was easier said than done. While I still wasn’t sure if we could make it, a stubborn urge to fight and survive came over me. I thought of what I’d do differently if I managed to escape this mess.

Desperate to survive, I knew there was one last option, though it was a long shot and slightly humiliating. Thanks to my impeccable memory, I remembered Mary’s number in Phoenix.

Surprisingly, she accepted the collect call, maybe out of concern that something had happened to Tom. Knowing she wouldn’t help us directly, I asked her to contact my parents in Florida, who didn’t accept collect calls. I explained that our phone charger had accidentally gone into storage, leaving our phone dead. While she didn’t offer any personal help, she agreed to make the call and asked what was wrong.

After hanging up, each minute felt like a dozen as I waited, hoping for the best. If no one would help, we’d have to proceed with our plan of ending our lives. I couldn’t endure this emotional rollercoaster much longer—it was too agonizing.

Then, the phone rang. Both my parents were on the line. I explained our situation as best I could, though I was shaken and they, in their mid-70s, weren’t as sharp. Initially, my mother said $100 was all she could spare due to medical expenses. I wondered if they were downplaying their finances, but I also knew how tight Social Security could be. She then told me about her own health struggles, including a recent surgery after years of smoking had cost her part of one lung, and that she’d had breast cancer surgery too. Despite her faults, it was sad to hear.

My parents did far more than just help. They saved us, covering two nights at the motel and sending $300 to get us through.

By Saturday the 13th, I saw a glimmer of hope, though we weren’t out of the woods yet. We had two chances: transferring funds to the new debit card or receiving the old one.

Since we hadn’t been able to go online due to his desktop’s lack of an antenna, Tom rigged a makeshift one. Online, he attempted to transfer half of the funds on the old card, now up to $850 with two paychecks, to the new card.

What Tom never told me, likely to keep me from panicking even more, was that the card probably wouldn’t come until Monday the 15th. Instead, he told me it could arrive any time.

The suspense was agonizing as I waited for Tom to get off work on Monday. The moment he called to tell me the new card had finally arrived, I felt the true meaning of “relief.”

I wrote a detailed letter to my parents, explaining why we left Oregon, the issues with the debit card, and our goals. I also asked them not to share our contact info with Larry or Tammy, as I didn’t wish to reconnect with them. At that time, I only provided our postal address, withholding our phone number, and skipped the email since they hadn’t had internet access for years.

In her reply, my mother promised she’d never share our address and assured me we didn’t need to repay them. She never expressed love, though, either by phone or by mail.

I was grateful for their help, but I was also faced with a tough decision. I had to ask myself if my gratitude was worth having them back in my life. After all, their help didn’t erase the past, and I knew that reconnecting would likely bring old cycles back. I reminded myself of why I’d walked away from the family drama. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I had no desire to engage with people who’d struggled to accept me as I was. I decided to keep things simple by sending a letter every month or so. I continued until six months went by without a reply from them.

It seemed they’d made the decision for me, and I’ll admit a part of me was relieved, suspecting they thought, “We helped her, and now she’s on her own again.”

To this day, I’m still unsure why my folks chose to help if they weren’t interested in a relationship. Perhaps they felt that, while they didn’t want to know us, they also didn’t want to see us starving on the streets.

I went to bed that night with a full stomach, knowing our room was paid for a week. I was no longer afraid to dream.

Eventually, we found ourselves out in the country, but not without another six months of struggle. Once we could finally access our money, we were briefly ahead, but it didn’t last.

My stomach took a month to recover from the poor diet we endured during the worst days. Each day, I prayed for life’s necessities and guidance toward a peaceful place to live.

Near the end of the year, a few months before we found our current rental, I noticed that my dreams never took place in apartments. Despite thinking an apartment would be our only option, I wasn’t haunted by apartment nightmares.

Toward the year’s end, things began improving. Tom transferred to the second shift, allowing us more time to search for rentals during the day. My wins started to pick up too, and I hit it big. I won a 32-inch flat-panel TV, multiple $100 gift cards, cash, shopping sprees, a $500 check for a cleaning tip selected by Clorox (plus a year’s worth of cleaning supplies), and a Yamaha Rhino ATV! We hoped to sell the ATV for a few thousand, though we doubted our chances of getting a house with our imperfect credit.

In January 2008, we learned we’d receive a cash equivalent for the ATV, which thrilled us. Plus, we expected a $1,000 IRS refund in May. For the first time, we had enough money to fulfill our goals: finding a decent rental and a reliable used car. But there was a catch: we had to wait nearly three months for both the nine grand and the $500. Once again, we nearly lost everything. The stress of waiting for them to write a lousy check was agonizing, and we had to pawn more things, including the TV. Just when I doubted we’d ever get the money, both checks arrived in late March, finally offering a glimpse of light at the end of our long tunnel.

Tired of noisy neighbors, a faulty AC, and a leaky fridge, we moved to the room next door. The new room felt like a fresh start.

Tom found a 1994 Ford Taurus wagon for $2,500 after taxes and licensing. It felt amazing to drive a fully legal car. The constant anxiety had been a huge burden for him. Whether it was prayers or just luck that kept him from getting pulled over, we were grateful.

Looking back, things could have been worse. The truck could have been impounded or broken down before the big check came. But I didn’t miss that old, uncomfortable truck, which Tom described as reliable to the end.

That night, with the new car, I realized all we had left to do was find a decent place to live.

That night, I drifted into sleep, dreaming of floating through the woods.

Since the check was so large, Tom could only cash part of it initially. It took a couple of weeks to access the full amount from his usual check-cashing place.

About a week before he withdrew the remaining funds, I dreamt of living in a house with significant space around it. I peered through binoculars at a house a few hundred feet away, its interior warmly lit but empty of people. I wrote it off as wishful thinking when I awoke.

Just after midnight on April 5th, Tom found an ad online for an old single-wide trailer in the tiny town of Auburn, 30 miles east of Sacramento. The secluded, country setting intrigued us. However, the ad lacked contact info, so Tom notified the site.

My Bio - Part 38

We spent about six hours loading the rental truck we would drive down to Sacramento, attaching a trailer to pull our own vehicle behind. By 3:00 p.m., we finally left Oregon for the last time on July 25, 2007.

Moving such a long distance without unlimited funds made me anticipate some challenges, but I didn’t expect the journey to be a near-disaster that would threaten our lives. It began as nothing like I’d envisioned; my expectations had never included poverty, hunger, homelessness, or sheer chaos. Had I known what lay ahead, I’d have felt sick to my stomach on the spot. The hardships we endured would make my previous challenges seem minor. It would end up being the third most scariest moment of my life.

Though the drive felt endless, I was excited to see the first palm trees as we approached Sacramento. We stopped to eat in Redding and didn’t reach the Clarion Hotel until 10:00 p.m. There, a group of youths played loud music in the adjacent room and practically took over the hallway.

Exhausted, we moved to an Econo Lodge. The room was spacious but pricey for a place with no amenities. After two nights, we transferred to a different Econo Lodge downtown, storing our belongings in a 10x10 storage unit. This motel had internet, but it was unreliable, making it a struggle for Tom to apply for unemployment online.

Our worst decision was spending a week at the Motel 6. The noise level was unbearable, reminiscent of a past experience I’d had in the projects 15 years earlier. The flimsy floorboards trembled whenever someone walked by, waking me up constantly. Someone seemed to be dealing drugs nearby, adding to the chaos. The frustration reached a boiling point, so we relocated to Best Western in Roseville. Though expensive, this hotel offered a spacious room with a mini-refrigerator, microwave, and coffeemaker.

Amid this chaos, two bits of unfortunate news surfaced. First, our property management withheld our $450 deposit, citing bogus repair charges. We had left the house spotless aside from a few minor issues, so I was disappointed that my instinct to leave the place “as is” was overruled by Tom’s wish to leave it clean. Second, Tom’s unemployment claim was denied. He had left his job to find work in a city with better access to doctors for my medical needs, but they didn’t give a shit.

With no deposit refund, no unemployment, and Tom still jobless, my stress turned into fear.

On August 12, Tom found a temp job at a warehouse in Rocklin. Although the pay was only $10 an hour and his coworkers were unpleasant, his boss was supportive. Two days later, we settled in the best extended-stay motel we could afford, though it wasn’t in the best part of Sacramento. The room, on the top of three floors, had a full-size bed, recliner, dresser, small table, and kitchen. While the space was cozy and functional, the decor was drab, and the walls were thin. The air conditioner malfunctioned, the microwave carousel didn’t work, and the refrigerator leaked. Noise from slamming doors and blaring TVs was an ongoing nuisance, along with frequent disturbances from the friendly but overly active staff performing maintenance and inspections.

Had we been in an end room, things might have been quieter, but that larger room was more expensive. I had no idea we’d end up living there for over eight months. Although we could come and go, it felt little more than a glorified jail cell.

Our expenses were astronomical. Gas prices had skyrocketed, the room cost $320 per week even at a discounted rate, and our storage unit was $87 monthly. While I enjoyed the warmer climate and proximity to stores and restaurants, I disliked the crowds.

Shortly after settling at the motel, we lost our beloved Tinkerbell to a tumor, which only deepened my despair and anger. I loved that rat dearly.

Over time, we became familiar with the motel staff, though a few, like one office worker and a housekeeper named Prasaad from Fiji, weren’t our favorites. Prasaad, originally friendly, became a bit cold, making me wonder if something had happened. Seeing someone immigrate here only to treat the natives poorly just wasn’t right.

Nonetheless, two of the people we met there became my favorites: Michelle and Kissum.

Michelle worked days in the office. She was a year younger than me. Although it was dyed, like my own long black hair that reached past my waist, I admired her fiery red hair and friendly eyes. Michelle was a bit heavy, but overall, she was good-looking. She was always quick to help us in any way she could, and I looked forward to seeing her whenever I went to the office, whether to drop off mail or for anything else.

Then there was Kissum, my favorite housekeeper, who was also from Fiji. I never would’ve guessed she’d become one of my favorites since she was so quiet the first few times she cleaned our room. But over time, she turned out to be quite chatty, and I looked forward to her visits. Her upbeat energy and humor did wonders for my otherwise sour mood.

There were a few other housekeepers as well: two from Thailand, one from Mexico, a new one hired right before we left from India, and Josephina, who was originally from New Zealand. Josephina was young and attractive and even tried to help us when things were at their worst by attempting to get us into a rooming house. But eventually, she called to tell us she hadn’t been able to reach anyone there. She worked on rooms during our first few months but later moved to the laundry department and I never saw her again.

Satish, another one from Fiji, was the head maintenance guy and friendly, though he deflated our hopes almost as quickly as he raised them. He had offered to rent us his three-bedroom house in the city for a thousand dollars a month. But when housing prices started plummeting, he backed out. At first, I felt hurt by the letdown, but I couldn’t really blame him—I would have waited, too. Still, it was tough to feel like we were finally close to finding a home, only to be left once again wondering where we could go, who would take us without perfect credit, and how we could escape constant noise, barking dogs, and loud stereos.

Mike, the manager, was also kind and offered us a slight discount on the grand-a-month monthly rate they started offering right before we left. But by then, we were too close to moving on to take him up on it, though the discount would have helped tremendously if it had been available earlier.

As the weather cooled, things worsened.

Our truck was broken into, and Tom’s birth certificate, some tools, a laser printer, and a few other items were stolen.

I started gaining weight and feeling stiffer from spending so much time cooped up in the room, struggling to work on the computer amid the constant noise. I wasn’t winning many sweepstakes, which I blamed partly on the unreliable internet we had for the first couple of months.

Eventually, the DMV stopped giving us temporary permits after our ’79 Dodge failed emissions, and Tom had to drive with expired plates. Later, the truck’s insurance expired, and we couldn’t afford to renew it, which only added to his stress on the road.

Then came October, and with it, a nightmare. To say I felt like we were being taunted is an understatement. Imagine a deranged person holding a gun to your head, saying, “Maybe I’ll pull the trigger, maybe I won’t.” The terror of that uncertainty was exactly what we felt daily, especially between October 4 and October 15—an 11-day stretch that was unrelentingly stressful as hell. Our survival was on the line, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. We felt trapped between the streets and despair.

On Thursday night, October 4, I had a dream that we had no money for food or rent. The next morning, October 5, Tom left early for work. When I woke up, I texted him about the dream, saying it had left me with one of my bad feelings, the kind we’d both come to recognize as forewarnings of trouble.

That afternoon, Tom came back to the room earlier than usual, carrying no groceries and looking grim. “Bad dream premonition,” he said, confirming the uneasy feeling in my gut. He explained that his paycheck had been directly deposited as usual, but we couldn’t access our account. Our debit card had expired while we were still in Oregon, and the bank had sent a new one to our old address. When it was returned, they hadn’t bothered to call or email us.

The next day, with no other options, we loaded up the truck in search of a campground. But we couldn’t find any; the directions people gave us were vague and led us in circles.

In desperation, we considered ending it all in the back of the truck by lighting charcoal to produce carbon monoxide. We wanted a quiet, secluded place with no chance of intervention. But even that seemed beyond our reach.

After wandering aimlessly and wasting gas, we began pulling items from storage to sell or pawn: Tom’s Xbox, the GPS, a couple of electric guitars I’d won, DVDs, CDs, and more. I was sick of the humiliation of being reduced to struggling, starving, pawning this, selling that—just to survive. While some items were things we had planned to part with, we wanted to do it our way, not forced in a rush, taking whatever we could get.

The money we raised bought us gas and a little food. Surprisingly, those “little wins” I used to complain about helped save the day. Without anywhere to go, we ended up at a rest stop heading towards Reno, but it was cold, so we turned back and parked in the Thunder Valley Casino lot. Making as much space as we could in the back of our beat-up truck, we spent part of Saturday night there. I climbed in first, and Tom, after making sure no one was watching, followed, pulling the hatch shut behind him. We lay huddled together, shivering, trying to stay quiet. People couldn’t see in well, but we could see them. Did any of them know what it was like to be broke and homeless? Did they take their homes and food for granted? Did they think only the lazy, the alcoholics, and the addicts ended up like us? Did they think their worst fears could never come true? What made them more deserving? We worked as hard as anyone, maybe harder.

Tom was afraid to sleep, worried his snoring might draw attention, and I was too cold, uncomfortable, scared, and angry to sleep myself. When he went to use the restroom in the casino, I lay there shivering, mentally cursing a God I wasn’t sure existed.

Eventually, I couldn’t take the cold and had to pee, so I went inside, used the restroom, and had Tom paged. Without money to gamble, we tried to blend in at the restaurant; he got a soda, and I ordered coffee. God only knew how much longer I needed to be awake. Our waitress, Dee, noticed our situation and told us about Kampgrounds of America, even offering soup on her tab. We declined the soup but thanked her for the KOA information. Unfortunately, it wasn’t free as she’d said, and going to a campground just wasn’t an option without a tent or money. Everywhere we turned, we seemed trapped in a real Catch-22.

By 4:00 AM, knowing we wouldn’t get any real sleep, we left the casino and headed for Walmart, where Tom browsed the store while I mostly stayed in the truck, lying down to calm my nerves. Around 7:00, we returned to storage to pull more things to pawn—the digital camera, a diamond I’d won, and finally, our laptop. While Tom was inside, I managed a 45-minute nap in the truck’s front seat.

The pawnshop didn’t open until 11:00, and as we waited, exhausted, I couldn’t shake the feeling of doom. The thought of not getting enough money to survive until our new debit card arrived was overwhelming.

Finally, when the shop opened, Tom went in first to see if they’d accept what we had. A moment later, Tom returned with good news—the pawnshop would give $65 for the diamond. I used my ID to complete the sale since Tom had left his at the casino the previous day. We’d laugh later about how he didn’t want to mention this in front of the pawnshop workers, knowing they might judge us less favorably if they heard the word “casino.”

We now had enough for one night at the motel. After pawning the laptop, camera, and diamond, we returned to the motel, where I finally met Michelle, the person I’d only spoken to over the phone thus far. Mixed feelings hit me as we re-entered that familiar room. I didn’t want to be there, but we desperately needed to shower and do laundry, even if it meant washing clothes in the tub. Also, it was more comfortable to sleep in a real bed, as opposed to the back of a pickup.

The room felt enormous compared to the cramped truck. We set up our remaining things, including a desktop computer from storage, and took showers. With only 45 minutes of sleep in over 30 hours, I ended up sleeping on and off for 14 hours, despite waking frequently from stress. The whole time, I wondered if we’d get our new debit card or if we’d be back on the street the next day. I was afraid of what I’d see in my dreams but more afraid of reality. Sleep, however fitful, was my only escape.

The next day, Monday, Tom couldn’t work because he had to figure out a way to get more money. He sold a gun sight I’d won, buying us another night’s stay but not enough for gas or food.

When Tom called the temp agency and card company, they gave conflicting answers, saying a new card could be expedited, but only if it didn’t arrive by Monday. After calling his boss Tuesday morning, she surprised us with her generosity, giving him $100 for gas. But even with the $100, we were far from stable. It bought us a room for Tuesday night, some food, and a little more gas. But after those expenses, we were back to square one—completely broke.

My Bio - Part 37

Written in 2007

Not long after we left the duplex, I entered my 40s and in late August, we found a small house to rent for just $450 a month on the edge of downtown. The neighborhood was older and a bit run-down, but it wasn’t unsafe. A coworker and friend of Tom’s, Eddy, helped us move, and someone he knew even towed our truck for free. While they were moving our stuff to the new place, I made sure to be as noisy as possible, just to get back at the rude, loony neighbor we had.

The reason the rent was so low was not just because the house was old—it was also tilted and easily the smallest house I’d ever seen, especially for a two-bedroom. It wasn’t even 1000 square feet. The house had a gas heater in the living room and we had to use portable heaters in the other rooms.

We weren’t entirely alone in this place. While we had the benefit of no shared walls, we did share the property with the best neighbor we ever had up until that time. Her name was Kim, a young woman who wasn’t working when we first moved in but later got a night job. She did have to park next to the house to reach her place in the back corner of the lot, and sometimes she and her company could get a bit noisy with car doors and stereos. But thankfully, her stereo wasn’t too loud and mostly blended in with the usual street noise. It was audible when we were awake, but it never woke me up.

We met the owner of the house only a few times, mostly when we had issues like freezing pipes or a broken refrigerator. For everything else, a handyman took care of the small repairs, like fixing some sewer issues.

We were glad we didn’t renew the truck’s license and registration since Tom’s job was just a six-minute walk away, and even the grocery store was closer.

The house had an old picket fence in the front and chain-link fences on one side and in the back. It was just a driveway’s width from a quiet elderly woman’s house, and about 60 feet away was another rental, a larger two-story house with three bedrooms. I was thrilled to learn that the property management company there forbade dogs. Their good-sized side yard ran right up to ours, but most of the renters didn’t get too obnoxious. Just a little music and some vehicle parking in the side yard, but it wasn’t too bad during the four turnovers of tenants.

Though it was quieter than the duplex, the most annoying sounds came from a dog in the back across the canal and the constant barrage of car stereos whizzing by.

After not hearing from Bob all summer, I sent him a letter, only to have it returned, labeled “deceased.” He had passed from the same thing Tom’s father died of—lung cancer caused by asbestos. It was sad, but I was relieved that Bob was no longer suffering.

A month or two before we left the duplex, we performed a spell Tom found online that was supposed to lift curses. I laughed at the idea but, with nothing to lose, gathered the household items required and gave it a try. Gradually, things improved, and I honestly believe it was due to that spell. There were just too many coincidences to ignore. Maybe the horseshoe outside the front door helped as well, along with the lucky bamboo plants we got, but either way, most of the two years spent in that house were fun.

In the fall of 2005, Tom was unexpectedly promoted and went from making $8 an hour to $13, though he eventually grew to hate his new role as QA manager.

With the extra money, I was finally able to see a doctor about the strange popping sensations and pressure in my bad ear. The doctor explained that the popping was due to a vacuum effect caused by congestion in the tube connecting the inner ear and throat, which was fairly common. Tom had experienced it too, but it wasn’t as annoying for him. We later suspected the pressure was linked to changes in elevation and the cold.

One of my fondest memories from living in that house was all the shopping I did—and Tinkerbell, the most incredible rat we ever had until then. Just when I thought there couldn’t be a more fun pet than Little Buddy or Blondie, Tinkerbell came along, and she was amazing. Friendly, smart, and full of energy. She’d chase me around the house, climb up my leg to sit with me and share treats. She was quite the terror as a baby, though, getting into all sorts of trouble—falling into the toilet, digging up plant soil, and getting stuck in spider traps.

In addition to expanding my doll collection, I had fun trying out new incense fragrances and buying a variety of other things with the extra money we had, though I later regretted not saving most of it.

Randy, our jolly mailman, was a delight. I looked forward to his visits when my schedule allowed me to catch him as he stopped by.

My moods influencing outcomes in more prominent ways than most is something Tom pointed out to me over the years. He said that while I might have premonitions and vibes, my real strength was influencing things based on my mood or attitude. At first, I laughed at the idea, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to see it. I even did some experimenting of my own.

I remembered how I used to take inhalers and nasal sprays that I was told I’d always need. But these days, I rarely use them. I was also told to avoid dairy because of my sensitive stomach, but one day, I got “determined” to enjoy it anyway, and now I do just that.

While it’s normal to feel good when things go well and lousy when they don’t, and for a positive attitude to attract positive outcomes, my experiences sometimes seemed to take this to an extreme.

Now that I understood my influencing abilities, I began to test it further. I started winning cash prizes more frequently, going from one or two small wins a month to wins every few days. One of my prizes was a Caribbean cruise, which we took in January 2007. But before the trip, I had a dream I knew meant something. In it, I was showering in a portable stall inside a warehouse with ceilings 15 to 20 feet high. When Tom came to help me down, we both fell, and I woke up before we hit the ground. I knew it was high enough that, had we landed, we would’ve been severely injured or worse. This dream made me feel uneasy, and sure enough, the trip was long and exhausting, and less fun than we’d hoped. When we got home, we had to deal with frozen pipes and a broken refrigerator.

Since K-Falls didn’t have a major airport, we took Amtrak to Portland and flew out from there. I loved flying, but the experience had turned into a chaotic circus of noisy kids.

The cruise was a blues festival on Holland-America’s Westerdam, featuring Delbert McClinton and other performers I’d never heard of. It lasted a week, sailing from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, and the Grand Turks & Caicos, though we never made it to the last port due to stormy weather. While I loved Puerto Rico, Tom and I agreed we wouldn’t do it again, especially since only the stateroom was included in the package. We had to spend nearly $2,000 on airfare, hotel stays, ground transfers, taxes, and other costs. The stateroom, which was valued at $5,000, had a private veranda I enjoyed writing and reading on, but the room itself was small and cramped.

I sent a postcard from Puerto Rico to my parents, knowing it would surprise them. We laughed about it, imagining their reactions.

Not long after, I won another big prize: a travel certificate worth $7,000 for a trip to Italy. We thought it would be fun to surprise my parents again, but a looming disaster would spoil that idea—more on that later.

In late 2006, Tom found an article explaining my rolling sleep schedule, which was caused by abnormal melatonin levels making my circadian rhythm a little longer than the standard 24 hours. So I wasn’t going crazy after all, and I hadn’t just gotten myself into a hopelessly bad “habit” I couldn’t fix.

Around the same time, I tracked down my old friend Jessie’s address online and sent her a letter. Since she’d known me by a different last name when I lived in Arizona, I figured she might be confused getting a letter from a “Jodi S.” in Oregon. When months passed with no reply, I assumed she no longer lived at the address I had. But in the spring of 2007, she surprised me with an email explaining she had misplaced my letter, which is why it took her so long to respond. We’ve kept in touch ever since. At the time, she was separated from her husband, working as an accountant, and living in a duplex with her 4-year-old daughter. She moved back in with her husband a few months later, and her son had recently gone out on his own.

I still hear from Mary regularly, but not much from Paula—she’s never been much of a writer.

Like many kids growing up in New England, I fantasized about moving to California. As Tom and I grew more frustrated with Oregon—the high taxes, the cold, the snow, his job, our rundown house, the limited stores and restricted hours, the lack of opportunities—we began to talk seriously about moving.

By June of 2007, we were ready to leave Oregon behind. Tom tried to find a job online, but it didn’t pan out. We also couldn’t find an apartment in advance to avoid the cost of motels, especially in pricey California. With limited options, we decided to take the $2,500 I had won in another big sweepstake and hope for the best.

We started severing our ties to Oregon. Tom gave notice at work, and we let the property management company know we were leaving.

On the morning of July 25th, I woke up, looked at the packed boxes around me, and smiled. The little girl who had dreamed of moving to California over 30 years ago was about to make that dream a reality.

I got out of bed. It was time to make that dream a reality.

My Bio - Part 36

Written in 2005

When we left the land and the RV for good, we feared the man who sold us the property might hassle us about it. Surprisingly, he allowed us to sign the land back over to him. By now, the old RV, if it’s still there, is probably home to the local packrats, just like the other abandoned one. I hope they enjoy it more than we ever did!

We began scouring ads and found a duplex with a management property. We’d have preferred a house, but none were available at the time. Besides, something seemed determined to place me as close to people as possible! It couldn’t have done a better job with this duplex, where we were sandwiched between a unit on one side and another duplex on the other.

Before moving into the duplex, we received a final letter from Queen Marjorie herself and an email from Miss Perfect. The message was insulting and insensitive, bragging about their new kitten, calla lilies, and minor cuts and bruises. Meanwhile, we were homeless and starving, and they knew it. Yet, they didn’t care. It was both sad and alarming to witness this selfish side of his mother, one I had always heard about but had never seen firsthand. Her behavior had been restrained when Tom’s father was alive because, while not abusive, he had made most of the decisions, preventing her from acting out. I truly believe she would have used Tom, even if it killed him, and she wouldn’t have cared if we both dropped dead. It was a harsh realization—sometimes the ones who’ve been in your shoes can be the least empathetic. She had struggled in the past, especially when her kids were young and money was tight, so I had thought she’d understand what we were going through. But as far as she was concerned, she couldn’t be burdened by our problems anymore.

On Halloween, we finally moved out of the motel, retrieved our belongings from storage, and settled into a rather spacious one-bedroom duplex, built in the ’70s or ’80s. It was larger than the two-bedroom house we’re currently renting. Both units formed a U-shape, with bedrooms in the back surrounding the patios, and living rooms at the front. The kitchens, dining areas, and utilities were behind the living room, and the bathroom was behind the garage, which was in front of the bedroom. The place had brand-new sculpted carpet in shades of brown and tan. However, the windows constantly collected moisture during colder months, causing mildew to grow along the sills, and the bathroom lacked a vent. The electric wall heaters were also incredibly expensive, even for a 1,000-square-foot space.

That first night, I had my first asthma attack since quitting inhalers, likely triggered by something in the new carpet. I almost wished I still had an inhaler, but I made it through.

The biggest flaw was the claustrophobic feeling of being sandwiched between Beverly, our neighbor on one side, and the other duplex on the opposite side. Those units were barely eight feet from our bedroom and bathroom walls. A mother and daughter reportedly lived there, though it became clear more people stayed there, and they had plenty of company. The sound of doors constantly opening and closing as they passed from side to side quickly grew tiresome. As the weather warmed up, they practically lived out back, making it worse. This part of town, though considered the nicest, was mostly retirees and disabled individuals who were always home. Privacy was nonexistent. We couldn’t even open the bathroom window to let out steam because the neighbors were always nearby, often with their own windows wide open.

Not long after moving in, I met Beverly while hanging wind chimes in the backyard. She was 51 and on disability, which explained why she was always home. She was quiet for most of the five months we lived there, except for about six times when she blasted her stereo until I mentioned it, prompting her to switch to headphones. The only other disturbances were her six grandkids, who stayed for three days in late April when they came to town for her wedding to her ex, the one who had knocked out some of her teeth. sighs sadly The banging from the kids running and jumping around was maddening, reminding me of how inconsiderate people had become, with fewer parents teaching their kids respect or manners.

By May, Beverly moved out, and Patty, along with her medical dog Freckles, moved in. I was dismayed to be so close to a dog, despite its purpose. Like Beverly, Patty rarely left the house. At first, Patty was considerate, retrieving Freckles whenever he barked, especially when the neighbor’s cats stirred him up by the fence. However, by June, she began leaving the dog out for hours and started blasting her TV. It was strange because, initially, she had been eager to please, insisting she didn’t want to bother anyone. Where her sudden indifference came from, I’ll never know.

The dog’s barking echoed through the covered patios, making it impossible to drown out, even with fans. I had to blast music just to concentrate. The noise even began to annoy Tom, though he was never woken up since he slept at night, the only time it was quiet. I wished I could keep a regular schedule, but I was almost glad I couldn’t. Being awake during the early morning hours was the only time I could think clearly and focus on writing. When Tom wasn’t sleeping, I decided I would no longer be the only one worrying about noise. They didn’t care about us, so we stopped caring about them.

As summer progressed, it became clear Patty hadn’t been honest when she said she didn’t leave the dog outside for long periods. It also became apparent that she was a bit odd, engaging in six-hour watering sprees and other strange behaviors. But the strangest thing was when she picked the petals off the rosebush outside our bedroom window, one by one, until it was completely bare within a month.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Patty was deliberately taunting me with her constant presence, or at least rubbing it in. It seemed like she was always outside, and she spent an awful lot of time on our side of the yard.

Although most of her visitors were quiet, I’d never seen anyone have as much company as she did. She’d have guests over two or three times a day during the week.

To save money for a move, we canceled our DVD rental subscription, and I cut back on my doll collecting, which had been shifting from porcelain to vinyl as my preferences changed.

In late 2004, I began feeling discomfort in my bad ear. At first, I thought it just needed cleaning, but whenever Tom checked it, there was nothing there—no dead skin in the artificial canal. With my many cavities, we started to wonder if the pain was related to my teeth. This theory seemed more likely after one of my upper molars on the same side as my bad ear cracked while I was eating popcorn yet the pain continued, sometimes worse than others.

Two notable things happened in May 2005. First, when the truck’s registration and license expired, we decided not to renew them. It wasn’t necessary since the town of K-Falls was small enough to get around by walking or biking, which we both enjoyed despite the cold, snow, and ice.

The second was that I started entering contests and sweepstakes like crazy, turning it into a full-time hobby. I spent hours each day entering for prizes like cash, electronics, trips, books, clothes, jewelry, and more. About a month later, I had my first win. The prizes were small at first, but better than nothing. It became my new thrill, like visiting a casino daily without knowing what I’d walk away with.

July was the final straw with Tom’s mother. After returning the birthday and anniversary checks she sent, explaining that we couldn’t cash them without a bank account, I requested that she send the money via money order or Western Union. But we received nothing—not even a note acknowledging my letter. That’s when I decided it was time to give her a piece of my mind. I knew it wouldn’t change anything, but it felt good to finally say what I’d been holding back for years. For so long I’d bitten my tongue and tolerated her and Mary’s shit and this was my way of “fighting back.”

By August, it took all my willpower to keep from doing something drastic to Patty’s dog after enduring hours of nonstop barking, day after day, month after month. That’s when we ramped up our search for a house to rent.