Guest Post: The Redistributed Life

Greetings, dear reader.

What follows may seem, to some, to be self-serving on my part, yet there is no service to be had. This is an exercise in truth, and it serves nobody unless somebody learns from it, and no service can be done me in that regard.

Regulars will be aware that, of late, I've embarked on something of an adventure, a mission to reclaim the life that is mine, a life I allowed circumstance to deny me.

For those not privy, this has been a mission of true love, of the sort that bards become famous for writing about. The title of this post is one that was to be the title of the book detailing our adventure, a tale of love, and woe, and hardship the likes of which, had it been the content of an airport romance novel, would have flopped as not believable.

Yet here it is, and every word of it is true.

The post title was to have been the title of the book detailing the love story that will, in all probability, never be written because we've reached the xenith of our ability to carry on. Despite a hail mary by one of our only remaining friends which I know, as somebody who's been fucked over by the cretinous British establishment and its people since birth, to be entirely futile. Still, we haven't the heart to express what complete twats the British are to her, and she's determined to keep us alive.

Here, my love, my muse, expresses bluntly what the world has done to us, especially those on social media who've ensured that every bit of possible support we could have has been stripped away.

Of course, it doesn't matter what she says, nor what I say, because the narrative has been written, and the villains are cast, despite the truth. It doesn't matter to them that their narrative has, at best, only a tenuous relationship to what actually happened, or that their rumours and lies have stripped people I cared about of their much-needed support, it only matters that they've found a way to feel superior and assuage their petty little insecurities.

Enough, though, of the rant. I will be delivering my own piece on this topic in the next 24 hours, after which we intend to remove the hostages from the equation, because we have no intention of being hostages any more. We have a route out, and we're going to take it, barring our dear friend's last ditch effort to keep us in the game.

In that light, some truth from Hallie, my muse, my love, my life. Post this truth, we're done, and intend to suffer no more the slings and arrows of the morons who seek to denigrate us.

Congratulations. You won. Here's Hallie.

__________________________________________

In this upside down world I've somehow been transported to, the “good”guys are the ones gleefully spreading untruths, destroying lives. I cannot help but ask myself what I've done to warrant such treatment. After all, if the whole world is against you... it's probably you, right?

A question, or rather an allegation I suppose, was recently tossed my way. Do I advocate suicide? The short answer is, yes, definitely. No one has the right to deny another's right to their bodily autonomy. Does that mean I'd rejoice in someone's brutal, lonely death? Of course not.

A little explanation then, for the idiots in the back who seem to have trouble with reading comprehension...

As someone who has lived an entire life steeped in the wish to please just not wake up in the morning, few things make me angrier than those who spew suicidal threats as a means of avoiding responsibility. For instance:

“When I callously betrayed my friends, I realized I didn't have to admit any wrongdoing whatsoever since I could just spread lies about them instead. And, gosh, it was so convenient to just cry suicide when challenged.”

That – is what I was referencing in my blog post. But, how nice it was for those who wanted to, to simply attack me. I'm an advocate for mental health. And, in fact, have spent dozens of hours with that very same person talking her off the “ledge”, listening to her gossip vile things about others because I know the value in venting. Of course, in retrospect, someone like that never deserved any kind of consideration. Hurt me once...

So, when I posted something so clearly out of character, where were the concerned voices for me? Who cares, amiright? I've relentlessly stood by a “sexual predator,” in the face of... no evidence for what he's been accused of. There was one instance which might have vaguely been considered harassment, that he apologized for. But, it's just so much more entertaining and satisfying to exercise divine retribution on someone. Again, who cares? About the truth, for instance? Very few, it seems.

And, since we're on the subject, none of you has the right to judge anyone else. Let alone act as executioner. But, of course, that's why you do it, isn't it? Vain attempts to disguise your own poisonous acts, try to erase the stains on your consciences.

Nice try, but we see you. “Good” people don't actively try to destroy the lives of others. Even if Tony had done any of these things for which he'd been accused, you still don't have the right. Why don't you do us all a favor and examine just why you have this dire need? Actual criminals get trials. Who the fuck do you think you are? I'll tell you, nothing and no one. Clearly.

But, don't feel too bad. You've finally succeeded. I give up. I tried to ignore you, to let the lies and attacks die. But, I suppose it's just so much fun, you don't know when to stop. Did you know it is a crime (a real crime, not this bullshit you morons are spouting) to bully others online? Have fun explaining your actions to the prosecutors when THEY ask you for evidence. Take a nice long look at us, lying there broken. We're through with this life that no longer wants us. See you all in hell.

Day 1

I met Tony at the hotel for the first time. We had dinner with Sarah and my son. It was a little tense from nervousness, but pleasant overall. Tony asked my son if he wanted to “have the talk”. He said, “As long as you treat her right and you're good to her, we're good”.

Day 2

Tony and I drove to Deadwood, SD while Sarah followed in her car. We spent several hours there, wearing silly hats, eating awful food. It was glorious. That night at the hotel, Sarah claimed to see a cockroach in her room and left to go to another.

Day 3

Sarah texted Tony saying she needed some alone-time. So, we drove separately again. We visited Stavkirk, in Rapid City, SD, largely for Sarah's benefit, but she declined to join us.

Day 4

Sarah texted Tony saying she'd heard something about him and couldn't stand us staying with her, after all. Tony asked what she'd heard and from whom, but Sarah declined to answer, saying she didn't want to reveal her source (that telling would make it clear who'd spoken to her). Bear in mind, Sarah had just spent three days in close quarters with Tony, making no indication of any discomfort. Later, she said he “triggered” her. What she means by that is anybody's guess, though he did spurn her advances very early on in their “friendship”

Day 5

Tony and I were devastated, but did not press Sarah any further. Whether that was a mistake or not doesn't fucking matter now, does it? A wonderful human, a friend we could never deserve, Marianne, invited us to stay with her until we worked out what to do. There we were, in Toronto. No money, no place to live. No support at all, largely because Sarah wasn't satisfied with just betraying us. No, she had to make sure we were left with no help, no outs. Confronted on social media, she admitted she was trying to chase me away entirely. Though, oddly, only a few days prior to that, said I could still come stay with her, but Tony could not. I've known her for awhile and have been privy to her relationship woes. As well as her petty vindictiveness when she doesn't get her way. None of this was terribly surprising, just disappointing.

For the next 4 weeks or so, Tony and I stayed with Marianne's family. And, whoever is reading this is welcome to ask her yourself, but neither of us ever harmed her or her family, or made them uncomfortable. They were our refuge and, for however long my eternity is, I shall remain grateful. Indeed, her comments about Tony during his initial stay with her prior to coming, which concerned her amazement at how well he engaged them in science at the science museum, even to the point that a member of staff there ended up directing volunteers to him for explanations concerning the exhibit on quantum theory, are a matter of public record.

Then... Tony and I knew we could not continue living off our friends. We needed to at least try to make this work. We couldn't get married, since we had no address. So, Tony couldn't work. I have severe neurological issues as well as social anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideations as previously stated. Nonetheless, I had to try. We settled on Denver since it's the closest city to my son. I applied for jobs, but was unable to find work. I applied for one job doing outreach for sexual abuse victims, for which I was invited for interview, so we drove to Denver. We knew it was a long shot, and it didn't pay well, but there were other jobs to apply for. Even if I'd secured something, it's doubtful any would have paid well enough for us to remain there.

At the end of both our tolerances, fighting severe depression, carrying each other through the days... finding no true solace, we leapt on what we saw as our last lifeboat. Going back to the UK. Upon our arrival in Manchester, I was detained by airport security for 6 hours, eventually being denied entry and deported back to Denver. It was determined I was trying to move to the UK – to marry Tony to live there, which is the truth, I admit. There's an obscure bit of British immigration law known as the 'primary purpose' rule, which says that, if some moron jobsworth (Ian Wrigley being the moron jobsworth in this case; a fine day's work in the defence of the realm on this day, I tell you) determines that you're only marrying to gain entry so that you can suck off the social teat, they can refuse entry. But, I digress...

The flight back to Denver was fraught and demoralizing. What were we going to do now? And, this might seem inconsequential to those on the outside looking in, but I must speak a moment about our flight attendants on IcelandAir Fl441. Both trips, to and back from the UK, were immeasurably better for the lovely people who attended us on those flights. I am extremely afraid of flying, which they accommodated as well as possible, letting Tony and me switch seats to remain seated together. They listened to our stories and gave me chocolate. The next time you're out and about, please think about this. It is the small things that keep us going. That give us hope. Because of those acts of kindness, we found the strength for another day.

Upon arriving back in Denver, we returned to what had been a place of refuge during our last stay in Colorado, the Holiday Inn in Stapleton, on Quebec St. Again, I must thank the staff there who were kind to us, who cared for us, when it seemed no one else in the entire world did. The hotel restaurant waitress who massaged the content of our restaurant bill so that it looked like an order of fries and a beer (you know who you are; thank you so much).

Again, we failed to gain any purchase in the state, which led to me breaking down and debasing myself... falling onto the mercy of my ex-husband. It is my great shame to admit (mostly because I knew how much it would hurt him) to ask for a place to sleep while he and our son were away on vacation. He said I could until they returned, at which time I would have to have developed a viable plan and he would consider letting us stay.

So, deeply ashamed and bereft, Tony and I made the trip back to Nebraska. I asked my father in law if he'd heard from Mel that we were stopping by. He said he had, so we proceeded to the basement to move things around to make room for a place to sleep. A few minutes into our endeavor, the police arrived. It's unclear who spoke to them; though, the cops assured me they'd been in contact with my ex-husband for the past 3 days. I was able to show them messages from Mel, giving me permission... to be in the house that I technically still co-own with him. After nearly an hour, they left after having words with my father in law explaining to him that we could remain on the property.

Still, I was utterly devastated. For me this is the last straw. Here I sit, in said basement after crying for hours. I give up. Do you read me? I'm done. Tomorrow, it's over, one way or the other. I've sent a message to my son, asking him to please take care of his father. For them to care for each other. I just don't have the strength. And, frankly, couldn't care less if anyone approves. Though, I do expect a few among you (I won't name) will be celebrating right about now. Which only proves my point.