When
I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993,
under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park.
That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window,
and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out
of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion
of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice
between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than
anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant
vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not
fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place
to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They
were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward,
as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my
resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short
out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my
unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she
pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have
no one to take her temporarily.
1. I never wanted to live
at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra,
the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.
2. Presby’s Diamond Park
owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and
robberies I suffered.
3. The Liberty Resources
homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust
until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ
investigation, is not helping me.
And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of
further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse
to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority
paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I
owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure
most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s
power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t
enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still
threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the
country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just
that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s
children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my
father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable
conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I
did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in
it. Perhaps next week.
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