Earlier today there was something good. Something I wanted to make a post about. Something fun and light.
I don't remember.
Being subjected to my sister talking to someone is Vogon poetry. She showed up at my house and talked to someone, someone from DHHS (which includes CPS) who is either extremely stupid or was a victim of her superiors trying to pass of their own incompetence as that of the Cape Elizabeth Police Department, on the phone.*
Don't know, don't care.
What I do know is that it's difficult to comprehend physical pain as horrible as having to listen to her side of the conversation. As soon as that was over she called someone else.
This continued almost all the way to my psychiatrist appointment and believe me I would have rather walked the two fucking hours than ride while my sister was on the phone because that shit hurts.
It's not like I can't walk. Sure I sprain my ankle every so often, but that's never stopped me from getting where I was going. My new psychiatrist knew of me (not by name as that would have violated patient confidentiality) because of the local group getting together and taking notes and, "The person who walks in from another city, and then walks back afterward," apparently got mentioned more than once.
So that meeting went well, but then I was back to the farm and . . . I was the only one fucking working. I know why. There's important paperwork to be done when people are trying to take your son away for good and shut down your farm and the neighbors have made not-so-thinly veiled death threats.**
Still hard to work on your own, especially what I was trying to do (prefabricated stiff wire fencing mixes with irregular inclines about as well as water with potassium.)
Anyway, the sweat pours out of me, sometimes onto my glasses (it all depends on the angle of your head.) Apparently I took them off once and then didn't put them back on. It's unclear what happened, but the only part that might survive salvage are the lenses. I have often thanked what gods may be for the fact they use durable plastics now instead of glass.
And I hate everything.
In the car, as I was forced to listen to my sister on the phone, I found myself thinking about how it would doubtless be far less painful to jump out of the car and let the high speed landing mangle me as it would.
That was before. When I found what was left of my glasses it was more of a mental collapse. I hate everything. I'm done for the day. Fuck it all.
On a side note. They're not even the right prescription. The most recent glasses with the most recent prescription were lost down Lonespark's toilet ages ago.
These were my emergency back up glasses.
I need new glasses. I'll probably just start using the previous emergency back up. I need a new prescription, instead I'll be going back to the one before the one before the out of date one.
If I had the money to pay for new glasses . . . well I need that money elsewhere. I can't even make minimum payments at this point. Just waiting for the day when no one can pitch in anymore and it all comes apart. Could even be this month, but if I were making odds I'd say November is more likely.
Fuck this blurry word.
* DHHS, you see, has their own version of events. Well, they have several. Four to be exact.
This presents a problem because they're telling my sister that she can't have her son back unless she confesses and demonstrates remorse. Confess to which version? Confessing to any version would be denying that the other versions happened which is what DHHS does not want.
Why do they not want it? No fucking clue. None of their four versions match what any present party claimed happened. Apparently they've got a crystal ball that let them know what was happening better than my sister's family, the neighbors family, and the police combined.
So when my sister pointed out that they hadn't even decided what they were actually accusing her of and had presented four mutually exclusive accusations . . . this is where it gets hazy.
Either the people working the case can't tell the difference between themselves and the Cape Elizabeth Police Department or they tried to claim that the four different versions they had were because the police report was revised three times resulting in four versions.
If the first then the person my sister was talking to had called up the Cape Elizabeth Police Department under the mistaken impression that it was an arm of the Department of Health and Human Services.
If the second then the person called up the Cape Elizabeth Police Department because their superiors said, "It's not our fault that the story changed, it's the police departments," and she followed up on that mistakenly believing that her superiors were honest people.
Either way, all that this resulted in was her finding out what everyone else already knew: the police report is not, in fact, allowed to be changed every time the reporting individual is caught in a lie.
** Specifically, after noting that they can see the entire worked area of the property from their house they said that they'd never see my sister's boyfriend again because they had someone coming to "take care of" him. Shortly thereafter they tricked a cop into rushing onto the property unannounced with his gun drawn, apparently in hopes that my sister's boyfriend would mistake him for a common murderer, try to defend himself, and get shot to death.
If the cop had done his job he wouldn't have been able to be tricked, wouldn't have had his gun out, would have allowed the situation to quickly deescalate when he saw that he'd been lied to and there was no danger, and wouldn't have written his police report in such a way as to imply that he smashed down the door without even touching it. (He might not be bright, but he can kill you with his mind. Apparently.)
But it was still the neighbors who tried to get my sister's boyfriend killed and used the police as their weapon. The rules and regulations that police are supposed to follow should make that impossible, but remember that my sister only didn't get murdered by that cop because she informed him that she was pregnant.
The neighbors, in their generosity, have responded by scheduling a court date for my sister's due date.
I don't remember.
Being subjected to my sister talking to someone is Vogon poetry. She showed up at my house and talked to someone, someone from DHHS (which includes CPS) who is either extremely stupid or was a victim of her superiors trying to pass of their own incompetence as that of the Cape Elizabeth Police Department, on the phone.*
Don't know, don't care.
What I do know is that it's difficult to comprehend physical pain as horrible as having to listen to her side of the conversation. As soon as that was over she called someone else.
This continued almost all the way to my psychiatrist appointment and believe me I would have rather walked the two fucking hours than ride while my sister was on the phone because that shit hurts.
It's not like I can't walk. Sure I sprain my ankle every so often, but that's never stopped me from getting where I was going. My new psychiatrist knew of me (not by name as that would have violated patient confidentiality) because of the local group getting together and taking notes and, "The person who walks in from another city, and then walks back afterward," apparently got mentioned more than once.
So that meeting went well, but then I was back to the farm and . . . I was the only one fucking working. I know why. There's important paperwork to be done when people are trying to take your son away for good and shut down your farm and the neighbors have made not-so-thinly veiled death threats.**
Still hard to work on your own, especially what I was trying to do (prefabricated stiff wire fencing mixes with irregular inclines about as well as water with potassium.)
Anyway, the sweat pours out of me, sometimes onto my glasses (it all depends on the angle of your head.) Apparently I took them off once and then didn't put them back on. It's unclear what happened, but the only part that might survive salvage are the lenses. I have often thanked what gods may be for the fact they use durable plastics now instead of glass.
And I hate everything.
In the car, as I was forced to listen to my sister on the phone, I found myself thinking about how it would doubtless be far less painful to jump out of the car and let the high speed landing mangle me as it would.
That was before. When I found what was left of my glasses it was more of a mental collapse. I hate everything. I'm done for the day. Fuck it all.
- - -
On a side note. They're not even the right prescription. The most recent glasses with the most recent prescription were lost down Lonespark's toilet ages ago.
These were my emergency back up glasses.
I need new glasses. I'll probably just start using the previous emergency back up. I need a new prescription, instead I'll be going back to the one before the one before the out of date one.
If I had the money to pay for new glasses . . . well I need that money elsewhere. I can't even make minimum payments at this point. Just waiting for the day when no one can pitch in anymore and it all comes apart. Could even be this month, but if I were making odds I'd say November is more likely.
-
Fuck this blurry word.
-
* DHHS, you see, has their own version of events. Well, they have several. Four to be exact.
This presents a problem because they're telling my sister that she can't have her son back unless she confesses and demonstrates remorse. Confess to which version? Confessing to any version would be denying that the other versions happened which is what DHHS does not want.
Why do they not want it? No fucking clue. None of their four versions match what any present party claimed happened. Apparently they've got a crystal ball that let them know what was happening better than my sister's family, the neighbors family, and the police combined.
So when my sister pointed out that they hadn't even decided what they were actually accusing her of and had presented four mutually exclusive accusations . . . this is where it gets hazy.
Either the people working the case can't tell the difference between themselves and the Cape Elizabeth Police Department or they tried to claim that the four different versions they had were because the police report was revised three times resulting in four versions.
If the first then the person my sister was talking to had called up the Cape Elizabeth Police Department under the mistaken impression that it was an arm of the Department of Health and Human Services.
If the second then the person called up the Cape Elizabeth Police Department because their superiors said, "It's not our fault that the story changed, it's the police departments," and she followed up on that mistakenly believing that her superiors were honest people.
Either way, all that this resulted in was her finding out what everyone else already knew: the police report is not, in fact, allowed to be changed every time the reporting individual is caught in a lie.
-
** Specifically, after noting that they can see the entire worked area of the property from their house they said that they'd never see my sister's boyfriend again because they had someone coming to "take care of" him. Shortly thereafter they tricked a cop into rushing onto the property unannounced with his gun drawn, apparently in hopes that my sister's boyfriend would mistake him for a common murderer, try to defend himself, and get shot to death.
If the cop had done his job he wouldn't have been able to be tricked, wouldn't have had his gun out, would have allowed the situation to quickly deescalate when he saw that he'd been lied to and there was no danger, and wouldn't have written his police report in such a way as to imply that he smashed down the door without even touching it. (He might not be bright, but he can kill you with his mind. Apparently.)
But it was still the neighbors who tried to get my sister's boyfriend killed and used the police as their weapon. The rules and regulations that police are supposed to follow should make that impossible, but remember that my sister only didn't get murdered by that cop because she informed him that she was pregnant.
The neighbors, in their generosity, have responded by scheduling a court date for my sister's due date.
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