"i fuckin hate you. you fucking woman-beating piece of shit."
so what do you do when you hear this?
i heard her say this at approximately 12:03 am January 13, 2014. she was in the parking lot outside the apartment complex. she slammed the door and peeled out of the parking lot, almost crashing into a parked car. she slammed on the brakes at the stop sign.
i was terrified that what we feared---that she is being beaten---was true. i was so proud of her for speaking out, loudly against his violence to her.
she screamed it out so loudly! i stood at the upper window with all five fingers raised.
as a hello: a witness. i am here. way to go.
i was happy she was leaving him, hopefully to a place of safety?
my friend heard her screaming. he thought she was being killed.
as she drove away he was concerned that she might be stunned by the beating or too injured to drive safely.
she returned to her abuser the next day.
as she left, john pulled in the parking lot. he went to the abuser's apartment to hang out, etc.
her car has a bumper sticker that says "i don't call 911." crisis support points out that someone who is abusing her may force her to use that bumper sticker.
two nights later a white van pulls up under our window, and a man with a rifle gets out, putting the rifle back into the van. he goes to the downstairs apartment where she is being beaten. the man who lives there is called johnathan riley.
he spoke to me once about some clutter in the hallway left by my friend. he has blondish strawberry blondish long hair pulled into a ponytail, some facial hair, of average stature, somewhat muscular, tattoos. he looked like an ordinary guy i might talk to at a goth club. or like he likes metal. he didn't look specifically like a "woman-beating piece of shit" like his girlfriend calls him.
i call joe winter who owns the building and explain to him i cannot live in a building where a woman is being beaten.
i tell him he may want to know this.
john has explained "we don't call police unless someone is dying."
meanwhile for months, nextdoor neighbors ted and anna fight late into the night, slinging cursewords at each-other and throwing things at the wall.
anna calls the building "methlehem."
i ask her about a bruise on her wrist.
our bedroom is rendered uninhabitable by the noise pollution. no one effectively ensures the habitability of the house of horrors. the blood curdling screams and cursing go into all hours and the nighttime foot traffic and auto-traffic indicate some kind of night-time enterprise rush-hour.
the vents pump out acrid smoke and mysterious fumes.
my friend complains of being drugged. i repeatedly tell him not to become too involved with our neighbors.
he sees bags of meth being sold, and meth pipes.
one admits to selling dr. bolley prescribed narcotics. she is said to have stabbed a knife through the walls.
she flails a knife in the hallway.
my friend is convinced meth fumes issue from her apartment.
she corners me in the hallway to ask me about why the crisis support network has sent police to manage one of Ben's TBI anger episodes.
i begged CSN do not send police, the neighbors will retaliate.
anna threatens me with retaliation. it is not my fault CSN calls police.
the fact that Long Beach police, city hall, et al cannot ensure building safety and the eradication of slum-lordery has put me in a terrifying position where i am being cornered by drug-dealers, police, and my TBI anger-episodic friend. his health is stressed out.
the so-called apartment manager john, threatened to beat up my friend approximately December 20.
this was a new low.
i explain to the landlord i like helping people but i do not want to operate a domestic violence clinic in my apartment---as one of the abused women is constantly knocking at my door for emotional support.
i spend November fearing property will be destroyed ransacked or stolen.
my friend has 200$ stolen in January, which lets us know the apartment dwellers and flow of "customers" are a danger to our economic safety.
my own problems become intermixed with the degrading atmosphere.
Parker told me to leave the building immediately december 5th or so.
i explained that i felt swindled and feared retaliation if i sought remedy.
i left portland to dodge a threat of domestic violence---only to wind up in a house of horrors.
i explained some of this to city council on monday night.
currently researching Traumatic Brain Injury regarding anger episodes.
falling out of love with benjamen pickering. his anger episodes since early october have pushed me from doubt to despair. wondering how much is salvageable in the way of friendship or partnership.
my role as social support has run me to the ground.
in the larger context of his family history, i understand more the range of possibilities in the light of the devastating police brutality he experienced recently, as well as the un-prosecuted head injury inflicted by corey johnson who lives at safe haven.
why is corey bragging about having almost killed a visually impaired TBI victim, who was then later assaulted by portland police?
ocean beach hospital noted the attack by "corey" the night they stapled my friend's head together.
about 23 hours ago my friend began screaming at me so severely in an automobile that i have told him he will never again be allowed to ride with me in a car again. his screaming at me in the car so terrified me that my knees were shaking and full blown PTSD symptoms were raging.
at the "Homeless Connect" fair put on by the kind and generous people of long beach, i found out about many untapped resources including coastal community action, and the adult education program with gray's harbor college.
i spoke to a larson about the scandinavian festival in astoria, the finnish community of naselle, and a finnish store in astoria. he had my mother's eyes and learned swedish songs as a schoolchild 55 years ago.
i love the ocean, and the geography, but there are limits to even these.
my body loves and craves the "oxygen in the air" which the smoggy cities of america are currently short on.
but i had already given up on america, it's abysmal men, it's crude lowlife.
it's polluted everything.
can the oxygen in the air overcome the other obstacles?
to city council i explain that men too need domestic violence resources, and that i can't let my neighbor be killed by her violent boyfriend. that if i failed to report this, i'd have blood on my hands.
my friend informs his family he will report his mother's verbal abuse around her son and grandchildren to child protection.
we get reports back she is curtailing her normal slew of cursewords and screamathons.
i feel terrified to be here, in nirvanaland, sometimes, but the air is so crisp.
braingarbage
"i fuckin hate you. you fucking woman-beating piece of shit." from downstairs
i heard her say this at approximately 12:03 am January 13, 2014. she was in the parking lot outside the apartment complex. she slammed the door and peeled out of the parking lot, almost crashing into a parked car. she slammed on the brakes at the stop sign.
i was terrified that what we feared---that she is being beaten---was true. i was so proud of her for speaking out, loudly against his violence to her.
she screamed it out so loudly! i stood at the upper window with all five fingers raised.
as a hello: a witness. i am here. way to go.
i was happy she was leaving him, hopefully to a place of safety?
my friend heard her screaming. he thought she was being killed.
as she drove away he was concerned that she might be stunned by the beating or too injured to drive safely.
she returned to her abuser the next day.
as she left, john pulled in the parking lot. he went to the abuser's apartment to hang out, etc.
her car has a bumper sticker that says "i don't call 911." crisis support points out that someone who is abusing her may force her to use that bumper sticker.
two nights later a white van pulls up under our window, and a man with a rifle gets out, putting the rifle back into the van. he goes to the downstairs apartment where she is being beaten. the man who lives there is called johnathan riley.
he spoke to me once about some clutter in the hallway left by my friend. he has blondish strawberry blondish long hair pulled into a ponytail, some facial hair, of average stature, somewhat muscular, tattoos. he looked like an ordinary guy i might talk to at a goth club. or like he likes metal. he didn't look specifically like a "woman-beating piece of shit" like his girlfriend calls him.
i call joe winter who owns the building and explain to him i cannot live in a building where a woman is being beaten.
i tell him he may want to know this.
john has explained "we don't call police unless someone is dying."
meanwhile for months, nextdoor neighbors ted and anna fight late into the night, slinging cursewords at each-other and throwing things at the wall.
anna calls the building "methlehem."
i ask her about a bruise on her wrist.
our bedroom is rendered uninhabitable by the noise pollution. no one effectively ensures the habitability of the house of horrors. the blood curdling screams and cursing go into all hours and the nighttime foot traffic and auto-traffic indicate some kind of night-time enterprise rush-hour.
the vents pump out acrid smoke and mysterious fumes.
my friend complains of being drugged. i repeatedly tell him not to become too involved with our neighbors.
he sees bags of meth being sold, and meth pipes.
one admits to selling dr. bolley prescribed narcotics. she is said to have stabbed a knife through the walls.
she flails a knife in the hallway.
my friend is convinced meth fumes issue from her apartment.
she corners me in the hallway to ask me about why the crisis support network has sent police to manage one of Ben's TBI anger episodes.
i begged CSN do not send police, the neighbors will retaliate.
anna threatens me with retaliation. it is not my fault CSN calls police.
the fact that Long Beach police, city hall, et al cannot ensure building safety and the eradication of slum-lordery has put me in a terrifying position where i am being cornered by drug-dealers, police, and my TBI anger-episodic friend. his health is stressed out.
the so-called apartment manager john, threatened to beat up my friend approximately December 20.
this was a new low.
i explain to the landlord i like helping people but i do not want to operate a domestic violence clinic in my apartment---as one of the abused women is constantly knocking at my door for emotional support.
i spend November fearing property will be destroyed ransacked or stolen.
my friend has 200$ stolen in January, which lets us know the apartment dwellers and flow of "customers" are a danger to our economic safety.
my own problems become intermixed with the degrading atmosphere.
Parker told me to leave the building immediately december 5th or so.
i explained that i felt swindled and feared retaliation if i sought remedy.
i left portland to dodge a threat of domestic violence---only to wind up in a house of horrors.
i explained some of this to city council on monday night.
currently researching Traumatic Brain Injury regarding anger episodes.
falling out of love with benjamen pickering. his anger episodes since early october have pushed me from doubt to despair. wondering how much is salvageable in the way of friendship or partnership.
my role as social support has run me to the ground.
in the larger context of his family history, i understand more the range of possibilities in the light of the devastating police brutality he experienced recently, as well as the un-prosecuted head injury inflicted by corey johnson who lives at safe haven.
why is corey bragging about having almost killed a visually impaired TBI victim, who was then later assaulted by portland police?
ocean beach hospital noted the attack by "corey" the night they stapled my friend's head together.
about 23 hours ago my friend began screaming at me so severely in an automobile that i have told him he will never again be allowed to ride with me in a car again. his screaming at me in the car so terrified me that my knees were shaking and full blown PTSD symptoms were raging.
at the "Homeless Connect" fair put on by the kind and generous people of long beach, i found out about many untapped resources including coastal community action, and the adult education program with gray's harbor college.
i spoke to a larson about the scandinavian festival in astoria, the finnish community of naselle, and a finnish store in astoria. he had my mother's eyes and learned swedish songs as a schoolchild 55 years ago.
i love the ocean, and the geography, but there are limits to even these.
my body loves and craves the "oxygen in the air" which the smoggy cities of america are currently short on.
but i had already given up on america, it's abysmal men, it's crude lowlife.
it's polluted everything.
can the oxygen in the air overcome the other obstacles?
to city council i explain that men too need domestic violence resources, and that i can't let my neighbor be killed by her violent boyfriend. that if i failed to report this, i'd have blood on my hands.
my friend informs his family he will report his mother's verbal abuse around her son and grandchildren to child protection.
we get reports back she is curtailing her normal slew of cursewords and screamathons.
i feel terrified to be here, in nirvanaland, sometimes, but the air is so crisp.
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