I moved into a new apartment. It is a genuinely nice feeling. one thing that I like is the bathroom. For a long time in years, I have had my own bathroom. I came here with truly little money. I knew I would not be able to do too many things to beautify my apartment. So, I decided to concentrate on fixing up, as much as possible, the bathroom. One of the things I have there is a great big mirror. And today I got a good look at my body. And for the first time, I had a good clear look at my legs. My legs have been grossly injured. Well, that is why I cannot see the sights of the city and film them as I would have loved to do. It also shows me clearly. I have been in a devout house. This is a house to create women who will never leave their cell in a convent. Hence my crippled legs. Rose. It has been very painful to see it. but at least I could clearly see it now. I know the reason devotees to the convent hurt them. and I think the wanton attack on my health and my body is an outrage. And quite horrible to me.
No, it is not that no one warned me about it. Sometimes,
however, no matter how significant others warn you, or if you are hurt or your
legs are crippled, all you could do is listen. You cannot avoid it. How was I
warned? I feel stupid. Warned? Hello. They were screaming about it all the time.
The people of the religious order, in the house, thought that violent talk was
the cat's meow. They could not have loved it more period from the weird and
violent pictures in the Chapel to the incessant celebrations of the horrible
demise of human beings in the name of All Saints Day, there was a steady stream
of violent talk. Obviously, they were doing something. And obviously, I could
not do anything about it but just endure consistent repeated violent and
useless attacks on my body and my mind.
The thing that really revolts me, the thing that really
perplexes me, is how I managed to get there in the first place. First, I am a
pacifist. I hate violence. I get sick thinking about it. When I was a little girl,
I did not even like sad endings in television programs. My parents would go
through television programs with me to make sure they had a happy conclusion.
So how did I end up in such a bizarre place for me.?
I came there once again as I have throughout my life because
I did not have a place to find to live. The halfway house I had lived in for
about two decades was centrally located downtown. Obviously in a troubled
neighborhood. Obviously, since halfway houses are part of the periphery of a prison
system, bloody attacks were common there. But one thing they did was make sure
I could walk. Another thing they did was make sure I did the housework there.
In the halfway house I mean. By the time the thing closed, because of lack of
funding, I was so heartily sick of doing housework, that the small, tiny cell I
found myself in, which only had a bed and very Spartan furniture, was a relief
to go to. Because I did not have to do housework. I did not have to do it anymore.
That is another strange thing that I do not understand.
Before I left my family's home, I mean, my mother forbade me to do the
housework. That was my mother's domain. These were her expensive instruments. That
was a long time ago. And yet I have retained throughout my life a great
distaste for doing housework. So how did I end up in this halfway house? In
which white place, was to clearly do the housework? That was so painful that
the next step for home became a convent in which the modus operandi was extreme
violence. Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire.
So, as I said before, I got a good clear look in my legs
today, for the very first time in a long time. And now I see what happened to
me when I moved there. They beat me up clearly. Like they do to the pious women
who go there. So, it could look like that I have taken the cloth and I have willingly forsaken the world and I would never leave the convent or my cell. Everybody
I talk to (albeit there were very few I talked to) warned me. But it seemed
like there was nowhere to go despite all these warnings. Just for your
information, as the years went by and the deeply devout Were able to muster a great deal of money and looked with great disdain at inferior beings, there
was, in this house of religion, a steady
consistent stream glorifying violence. Not only was that the most important
icon in the house, but it was also a symbol that made you focus on torture. The
crucifix. There was no way I was going to follow that religion. There was talk about
hell. but as people talked about hell, I looked at the devout women dressed in
Gray and white and morbid colors like that. At first, I did not believe in my
heart, and I still do not believe that they are righteous. And second, I did
not feel they were good. And third of all there was no way I would come
anywhere near them to listen to anything more than what they could not avoid
telling everybody. That included, as far as I was concerned, their
religious teachings, and all talk about my lack of ability or dignity as a human being. The
most I wanted them to do was just go away from them. Despite the beatings, which
obviously were not that easy to ignore, I maintained a great distaste (and still
do) for the concept of violence.
As I write this down, I realized just how much I was in
trouble there. I also feel deeply, as usual, that the gross injuries that were inflicted on me were useless. I do not want to move to the country, I do not
want to become religious, I hate to stay at home like I do, and I hate it more
because it is due to a violent beating. I also realize, quite grimly, and maybe
stupidly, and uselessly, I was the outsider there that way paid because
everybody was wonderfully delighted with violent talk in that religious place. So,
what was I to expect?
The funny thing is, when I arrived there, seeing that there
were three meals a day, and no housework to do, I felt that intense feeling of
relief. For years I felt that. And as the years progressed, I got increasingly
severe beatings. Go figure.
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